LIBRARY 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

SANTA  BARBARA 

PRESENTED  BY 
Herbert  S.  Woodward 


JOHN  L.  STODDARD'S  LECTURES 

NORWAY       SWITZERLAND 
ATHENS        VENICE 


Nor-wood  Press 

J.  5.   Cashing  &  Co.  —  Berwick  &  Smith  Co. 
Nor-wood,  Mass.,   U.S.A. 


Boston    Bookbinding    Co.,    Cambridge,    Mass. 


--  T^vu^ 


Q 


JOHN  L.  STODDARD'S 
LECTURES 


COMPLETE   IN    TEN   VOLUMES 
VOLUME    ONE 


BOSTON 
BALCH    BROTHERS    CO. 

MCMIX 

CHICAGO:   GEO.   L.  SHUMAN  &  CO. 


COPYRIGHT,  1897 
BY  JOHN  L.  STODDARD 


ENTERED  AT  STATIONERS'  HALL,  LONDON 
ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 


LIBRARY 

CMVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
SANTA  BARBARA 


JOHN  L.  STODDARD  was  born  in  Brookline,  Mass.,  April  24,  1850.  He 
graduated  at  Williams  College,  as  valedictorian  of  his  class,  in  1871,  and 
then  studied  theology  for  two  years  at  Yale  Divinity  School.  Next  he  taught 
Latin  and  French  in  the  Boston  Latin  School.  In  1874  he  was  able  to  gratify 
a  long  cherished  desire  to  travel  in  foreign  lands,  and  not  only  made  the 
customary  tour  of  Europe,  but  visited  Greece,  Asia  Minor,  Palestine  and 
Egypt  as  well.  He  then  studied  in  Germany,  and  upon  his  return  to  America, 
began  his  career  as  a  lecturer,  which  for  about  twenty  years  has  known  no 
interruptions  save  those  due  to  his  repeated  visits  to  remote  countries.  His 
travels  embrace  nearly  all  the  habitable  parts  of  the  globe. 


PREFACE 

A  WITTY  French  abbe  was  once  asked  why  he  kept  up 
a  country-seat  which  he  never  visited.  "  Do  you 
not  know,"  he  answered,  "that  I  must  have  some 
place,  where,  though  I  never  go  to  it,  I  can  always  imagine 
that  I  might  be  happier  than  where  I  am?"  The  world  is 
like  the  abbe".  Most  of  us  are  not  living,  we  are  anticipating 
life.  We  are  always  "going  to  our  country  seats."  It  is 
the  land  we  have  not  visited  that  is  to  give  to  us  our  greatest 
happiness.  If  we  have  not  yet  found  it  in  America,  it  is 
awaiting  us  in  Europe;  if  not  in  Europe,  surely  in  Japan. 
As  the  Germans  say,  "Da  wo  ich  nicht  bin,  da  ist  das 
Gliick."  Hence  travel  is  attractive,  if  only  as  a  means  of 
acquiring  that  happiness  which  here  seems  so  elusive.  All 
of  us  hope  to  some  day  visit  Europe  and  the  Orient,  and 
for  that  reason  everything  pertaining  to  their  beauty,  art, 
and  history  seems  alluring.  But  when  these  have  been  seen, 
the  wished-for  goal  of  the  untraveled  world  again  recedes, 
and  the  desire  is  just  as  strong  to  visit  other  and  more  dis- 
tant lands. 

This  love  of  travel  is  not  caused  by  ordinary  restlessness. 
It  springs  originally  from  the  universal  craving  of  the  soul 
for  something  different  from  its  usual  environment. 

It  also  comes  from  a  legitimate  longing  for  that  broader 
education  which  only  personal  study  of  other  races,  civiliza- 
tions and  religions  can  bestow.  And,  finally,  it  arises  from  a 
yearning  for  the  joy  and  benefit  of  realizing  history  by  visit- 
ing the  ancient  shrines  of  art,  the  homes  or  sepulchres  of 
heroes,  and  the  arenas  of  heroic  deeds.  When  such  desires 

S 


6  PREFACE 

are  once  awakened,  to  travel  is  to  live,  to  remain  continually 
in  one  place  is  to  stagnate. 

Thousands  of  books  of  travel  have  been  written,  but  not- 
withstanding that  the  scenes  described  in  them  are  practically 
the  same,  and  though  the  streets  and  buildings  which  adorn 
their  text  are  perfectly  familiar  to  their  readers,  such  works  are 
usually  welcome,  and  always  in  proportion  to  the  degree  in 
which  mere  figures  and  statistics  are  subordinated  to  the  ideas 
suggested  by  such  travel  to  the  writer's  mind,  which,  of  course, 
vary  infinitely  according  to  the  culture,  sympathy  and  enthu- 
siasm of  the  individual.  Thus,  in  a  similar  way,  the  keys  of 
all  pianos  are  the  same;  yet  it  is  not  the  bits  of  ivory  them- 
selves that  hold  us  spell-bound,  but  the  magnetic  fingers  that 
move  over  them,  and  the  musical  interpretation  and  expres- 
sion given  by  the  performer. 

If  only  accurate  statistics  and  detailed  descriptions  were 
desired,  guide-books  would  be  sufficient ;  but  who  ever  reads 
a  guide-book  for  amusement? 

Such  thoughts  have  encouraged  the  author  of  these  vol- 
umes to  present  in  printed  form  lectures  which  for  eighteen 
years  have  been  received  with  never-failing  kindness  by  an 
indulgent  public.  Verba  volant;  Scripta  manent  (Words  are 
fleeting,  but  what  is  written  remains).  The  voice  of  the 
speaker  dies  away,  and  what  he  says  is  soon  forgotten,  but  on 
these  printed  pages,  that  which  has  really  caused  whatever 
success  the  "Stoddard  Lectures"  have  achieved,  may  be 
recalled  precisely  as  the  lectures  were  heard,  accompanied 
too  by  even  more  embellishment  than  illustrated  them 
at  the  time  of  their  delivery.  It  has  always  given  the  writer 
a  singular  sensation  to  meet  his  audiences  season  after  season 
after  the  separation  of  a  year.  Were  they  the  same  individ- 
uals whom  he  had  last  addressed?  He  could  not  tell.  They 
could  be  absolutely  sure  of  his  identity,  but  he  was  quite 
unable  to  determine  theirs.  Beyond  the  curve  of  platform 


PREFACE  7 

or  of  stage,  he  could  not  distinguish  the  auditors  of  former 
years  from  those  who  were  seated  there  for  the  first  time. 
Sometimes  they  seemed  to  him  scarcely  more  real  and  tangi- 
ble than  were  the  views  that  came  and  went  so  noiselessly 
upon  the  screen.  He  looked  for  a  few  moments  at  an  amphi- 
theatre of  expectant  faces,  then  darkness  would  transform 
them  into  rows  of  phantoms,  and  at  the  end  he  saw  them 
rise  and  disappear,  like  a  great  fleet  of  ships  that  separates 
and  scatters  on  a  trackless  sea. 

In  these  volumes,  however,  he  hopes  to  meet  his  audi- 
ences more  frequently,  and  for  a  longer  time  than  ever  before. 
If,  then,  the  oral  lectures  may  have  given  the  public  some 
enjoyment  in  the  past,  it  is  the  author's  hope  that  when  he 
himself  no  longer  greets  his  former  listeners,  year  by  year, 
these  souvenirs  of  travel  may  in  this  form  find  a  more  endur- 
ing place  among  the  pleasures  of  their  memories. 

In  that  case  he  will  not  be  utterly  forgotten,  for  pleasant 
memories  can  never  be  taken  from  us ;  they  are  the  only  joys 
of  which  we  can  be  absolutely  sure. 


tf 


NORWAY. 


OF  all  the  countries  on  our  globe,  Norway,  in  some 
respects,  must  rank  as  the  most  wonderful.  From 
the  North  Cape  to  its  most  southern  limit  the  dis- 
tance is  about  eleven  hundred  miles.  Nearly  one-third  of  this 
great  area  lies  within  the  Arctic  circle.  One  would  expect 
its  climate  to  be  that  of 
Greenland ;  but  Nature 
saves  it,  as  a  habitation 
for  the  race,  by  sending 
thither  the  mysterious 
Gulf  Stream,  which  crosses 
the  Atlantic  for  five 
thousand  miles,  and,  al- 
though far  spent  on  that 
distant  shore,  fulfills  its 
mission,  transforming,  by 
its  still  warm  breath,  an 
otherwise  barren  region  to 
a  fertile  land.  But  this  is 
only  the  beginning  of  Nor- 
way's wonders.  Exposed 
to  all  the  fury  of  the  North  Sea,  Arctic  and  Atlantic,  the 
navigation  of  its  coast  would  be  well-nigh  impossible  had  not 
indulgent  Nature  made  here  countless  breakwaters,  by  means 
of  a  vast  fringe  of  islands  more  than  a  thousand  miles  in 
length,  behind  which  are  smooth,  sheltered  channels  for  the 
largest  ships. 


KING   OSCAR   II 


12 


NORWAY 


Again,  Norwegian  mountains  come  directly  to  the  sea. 
On  this  account,  one  might  suppose  that  the  interior  would 
be  inaccessible.  But  Nature  does  here  one  more  act  of  kind- 
ness, and  penetrates  these  mountain  walls  at  many  points 
with  ocean  avenues,  sometimes  a  hundred  miles  in  length, 
and  with  such  depth  that,  at  their  farthest  limits,  steamers 
may  come  directly  to  the  shore.  Moreover,  to  enhance  its 
mystery  and  beauty,  Nature  bestows  on  this,  her  favorite, 
a  day  that  is  a  summer  long,  —  a  light  that  never  elsewhere 
was  on  land  or  sea, 
—  and  makes  its 
splendid  vistas  still 
more  glorious  by  a 
midnight  sun. 

There  have  been 


THE   HARBOR  OF   CHRIST1ANIA. 


few  experiences  in 
my  life  more  joy- 
ous and  exhilarat- 
ing than  my  arrival 
in  Christiania.  It 
was  six  o'clock  in 
the  morning  as  our 

steamer  glided  up  its  noble  harbor.  The  sky  was  cloudless; 
the  water  of  the  deepest  blue ;  a  few  white  sails  rose  here  and 
there,  like  sea-gulls,  from  the  waves.  The  forest-covered 
islands,  emerald  to  the  water's  edge,  seemed  gems  upon  the 
bosom  of  the  bay.  Beyond,  were  mountains  glistening  in 
an  atmosphere,  the  like  of  which,  for  clearness,  I  had  never 
seen :  while  the  first  breath  of  that  crisp,  aromatic  air  (a 
most  delicious  blending  of  the  odors  of  mountain,  sea,  and 
forest)  can  never  be  forgotten. 


NORWAY 


THE   VICTORIA    HOTEL. 


"This,  this 
is  Norway!  " 
we  exclaimed, 
"  and  it  is  all 
before  us;  first, 
in  the  joy  of  ex- 
ploration ;  then 
in  the  calmer, 
though  perpet- 
ual, pleasure  of 
its  retrospec- 
tion." 

Excited  by 
our  anticipa- 
tions, we  dis- 
embarked as 
speedily  as  possible,  and  hastened  to  the  Hotel  Victoria.  It 
is  a  well-kept,  comfortable  hostelry,  whose  chief  peculiarity 
is  a  spacious  courtyard,  where  frequently,  in  summer,  table 
d'hote  is  served  beneath  a  mammoth  tent  of  gorgeous  colors. 
Moreover,  it  is  a  pleasant  rendezvous  for  travelers;  for 
while  some  tourists  are  here  setting  forth  upon  their  inland 
journey,  others  have  just  completed  it, 
and  with  bronzed  faces  tell  strange 
stories  of  the  North,  which  sound  like 
tales  invented  by  Munchausen. 

Impatient  to  arrange  our  route,  after 
a  breakfast  in  the  hotel  courtyard  we 
went  directly  to  the  individual  known 
as  "Bennett."  "Bennett?  Who  is 
Bennett?  "  the  reader  perhaps' exclaims. 
My  friend,  there  is  but  one  Norway, 
and  Bennett  is  its  prophet.  Bennett 
is  the  living  encyclopaedia  of  Norway; 


MR.  BENNETT, 
THE  TRAVELER'S  FRIEND. 


14  .          NORWAY 

its  animated  map;  its  peripatetic  guide-book.  Nor  is  this 
all.  He  is  the  traveler's  guide,  philosopher,  and  friend. 
He  sketches  lengthy  tours  back  and  forth  as  easily  as  sailors 
box  the  compass;  tells  him  which  roads  to  take  and  which 
to  avoid;  sends  word  ahead  for  carriages  and  horses; 
engages  rooms  for  him  within  the  Arctic  circle;  for- 
wards his  letters,  so  that  he  may  read  them  by  the  mid- 
night sun ;  gives  him  a  list  of  carriage-coupons  which  the 
coachmen  cry  for;  and  (more  important  still)  so  plans  his 


numerous  arrivals  and  departures  on  the 
coast  that  he  may  always  find  a  train  or  steamer  there 
awaiting  him.  This  is  a  most  essential  thing  in  Norway. 

As  a  rule,  Norwegian  time-tables  are  about  as  difficult 
to  decipher  as  the  inscriptions  on  a  Chinese  tea-caddy.  Even 
Bradshaw,  the  author  of  that  English  railway  guide  which 
is  the  cause  of  so  much  apoplexy,  came  here  to  Norway 
a  few  years. ago,  and  died  in  trying  to  make  out  its  post-road 
and  railway  system.  Some  think  that  it  was  a  judgment 


IN    NORWAY. 


NORWAY 


upon  him.  At  all  events,  his  grave  is  near  Christiania,  and  he 
sleeps,  while  the  "globe-trotter,"  whom  he  long  befriended, 
still  rushes  to -and  fro. 

Although  an  Englishman  by  birth,  "Bennett"  has  been 
for  fifty  years  a  resident  of  Norway,  and  is  a  blessing  to  all 
travelers  in  that  country.  At  first  he  gave  his  services  gratu- 
itously; but  as  the  tourists  began  to  multiply,  he  found  that 
such  disinterestedness  was  impossible.  He  at  length  made 
a  business  of  it,  and  year  by  year  it  has  steadily  increased. 

A  new  edition  of  his  guide-book  comes  out  every  season ; 
and  to  still  further  help  the  public,  he  has  begotten  four 
young  Bennetts,  who  act  as  courteous  agents  for  their 
father,  in  Bergen,  Trondhjem,  and  Christiania.  He  has 
no  "personally  conducted 
parties."  He  has  no  wish 
to  go  outside  of  Norway. 
But  here,  on  account  of 
the  peculiar  style  of  travel- 
ing, and  the  difficulty  of  the 
language,  it  certainly  is  a 
great  convenience  to  employ 
him. 

Our  arrangements  with 
this  guardian  of  Norwegian 
tourists  having  at  length 
been  concluded,  we  strolled 
for  some  time  through  Chris- 
tiania's  streets.  It  is  a  clean 
and  cheerful  city,  though  it 
can  boast  of  little  architec- 
tural beauty.  The  Royal 
Palace  is  its  finest  building, 
but  even  this,  on  close  in- 
spection, proves  to  be  more 


CHRISTIANIA   FJORD. 


i8 


NORWAY 


THE   PALACE   AT   CHRISTIANIA. 


useful  than  or- 
namental, and 
well  suited  to  a 
nation  forced  to 
practice  strict 
economy.  In 
inspecting  the 
structure  it  is 
interesting  to 
remember  how 
independent 
Norway  is  of  Sweden,  although  both  countries  are  governed 
by  one  King.  The  Parliament  in  Christiania  is  wholly  sepa- 
rate from  that  of  Stockholm.  No  Swede  may  hold  political 
office  here.  Even  the  power  of  the  King  is  limited ;  for 
if  a  bill  is  passed  three  times  in  the  Norwegian  Parliament, 
then,  notwithstanding  the  royal  veto,  it  becomes  law. 

Moreover,  in  accordance  with  the  Constitution,  the  King 
of  Sweden  and  Norway  must  be  crowned  in  Norway ;  he  must 
reside  here  three  months  in  the  year;  here,  also,  he  must 
open  Parliament  in  person,  and  hold  receptions,  for  no  Nor- 
wegian wishes  to  go  to  Stockholm  for  a  presentation  to 
his  sovereign.  In  this  portion  of  his  realm,  also,  he  must 
be  addressed  as  "King  of  Norway  and  Sweden,"  not  of 
"Sweden  and  ^^**"B— •••••^i^^  Norway."  A 

certain  rival-     ^^^  ^^^^       ry  still  ex- 

ists  be-      ^r  ^^^      tween 

these       JT  .  •      •       iJH       I  i       '  "'•MBMlli         two 


A  VIEW   NEAR  CHRISTIANiA. 


NORWAY 


RUM 

FOR 

RESANDE. 


J 


AN   AMBIGUOUS    SIGN. 


nations.  Norwegians 
sometimes  say :  "We  love 
the  English,  and  drink 
tea;  the  Swedes  love 
the  French,  and  drink 
coffee!" 

One  of  the  first  things 
that  attracted  my  atten- 
tion in  my  walks  through 
Christiania  was  the  pe- 
culiar sign,  "  Rum  for 
Resande."  Judge  not,  however,  from  appearances  in  this 
strange  language  of  the  north.  It  is  said  that  not  long  ago 
an  English-speaking  traveler  of  strong  prohibition  principles 
was  horrified  at  seeing  this  announcement  frequently  displayed. 

"  What  does  that  last  word  '  Resande  '  mean?"  he  asked 
suspiciously. 

"Travelers,"  was  the  reply. 

"Rum  for  travelers!"  he  exclaimed.  "Oh,  this  is  ter- 
rible! What  an  insult  to  the  traveling  public!  Now  I,  for  one, 
protest  against  such  misrepresentation.  I  am  a  traveler,  but 
I  never  take  a  drop  of  rum." 


A  BIT  OF   NORWAY, 


20 


NORWAY 


LAKE   MJOSEN. 


"  Not  quite 
so  fast,"  re- 
joined  a  Nor- 
wegian, who 
was  laughing 
heartily;  "that 
first  word 
means,  not 
rum,  but  rooms; 
the  whole  sen- 
tence, there- 
fore, merely 
signifies,  '  lodg- 
ing for  travel- 
ers.' '  Eager 
to  start  upon 

our  northward  journey,  we  left  some  interesting  features  in 
Christiania  for  a  later  visit,  and  on  a  beautiful  June  morn- 
ing set  out  for  the  coast.  The  train  conveyed  us  in  two 
hours  to  Lake  Mjosen,  where  we  embarked  upon  a  little 
steamer.  From  that  time  on,  al- 
though continually  traveling,  we 
saw  no  more  railways  for  a  month. 
This  lovely  sheet  of  water  has  a 
marvelous  depth,  its  bed,  in  places, 
being  one  thousand  feet  below  the 
level  of  the  sea.  This  fact  grows 
more  mysterious  when  we  remem- 
ber that  on  the  occasion  of  the 
Lisbon  earthquake,  in  1755,  the 
waters  of  this  lake,  although  so 
remote  from  Portugal,  were  so  ter- 
ribly disturbed,  that  they  rose 
suddenly  to  the  height  of  twenty 


HSE   CAPTAIN. 


NORWAY 


21 


feet,  and  then  as 
suddenly  sub- 
sided. 

It  was  while 
sailing  on  the 
waters  of  Lake 
Mjosen  that  we 
had  another  curi- 
ous linguistic  ex- 
perience. Next 
to  Norwegian  or 
Swedish,  English 
is  best  under- 
stood and  spoken 
by  the  natives,  especially  among  the  seafaring  population. 
We  did  not  know  this  fact  at  first,  and  as  we  had  just  come 
from  Germany,  it  seemed  more  natural  to  address  the  people 
in  the  Teutonic  tongue.  You  know  the  German  word  for 
bright  or  clear  is  "hell."  Accordingly,  desiring  to  ask  the 
captain  if  he  thought  that  the  weather  would  be  fine,  my  friend 


A   LANDING   PIER. 


22 


NORWAY 


stepped  up  to  him,  and  pointing  to  the  sky,  said  interroga- 
tively, "Hell?" 

"No,"  replied  the  captain,  in  perfectly  good  English, 
"hell  doesn't  lie  in  that  direction!  r 

A  sail  of  several  hours  here  through  charming  scenery 
brought  us  at  last  to  the  place  where  we  were  to  disembark. 
Hardly  had  I  set  foot  upon  the  pier,  when  a  man  accosted 
me  in  good,  familiar  English : 

' '  Just  step  this  way,  sir,  if  you  please, ' '  he  said ;  ' '  the  car- 
riage ordered  for  you  by  Mr.  Bennett  is  all  ready." 

This  surely  was  a  pleasant  introduction.     There  was  no 

trouble   whatsoever — no    bargaining,    no    delay.      In    fifteen 

minutes  we  had  started  on  our  four  days'  journey  to  the  sea. 

Between    Christiania  and    the  western  coast    is    a    broad 

mountain  range  extending  hundreds  of  miles  north  and  south. 

No  railroad  crosses  that 
gigantic  barrier.  True, 
the  town  of  Trondhjem, 
in  the  north,  can  now  be 
reached  circuitously  by 
rail.  But  all  the  great 
southwestern  coast,  in- 
cluding the  towns  of  Ber- 
gen and  Molde,  and  the 
large  fjords,  can  only  be 
approached  by  several 
magnificent  highways,  of 
which  the  finest  here 
awaited  us,  the  one  ex- 
tending for  a  hundred 
and  sixty  miles  from  Lake 
Mjosen  to  the  Songe  fjord.  And  here  one  naturally  asks, 
"  What  is  the  mode  of  traveling  in  Norway?  Where  do  you 
eat?  Where  do  you  sleep?  Do  you  take  horses  for  the  entire 


A    LOVELY   DRIVE. 


SjETERSDALEN 


NORWAY 


journey,  or  from  day  to  day?"  It  is  easily  explained.  All 
these  Norwegian  highways  are  divided  into  sections,  each 
about  ten  miles  long.  These  sections  have  at  one  extremity 
a  "station" 
(usually  a  farm- 
house), the  own- 
er of  which  is 
obliged  by  law 
to  give  to  travel- 
ers food  and 
lodging,  and  also 
to  supply  them 
with  fresh  horses 
to  the  next  sta- 
tion. 

These  Nor- 
wegian post- 
houses  are  in- 
variably made  of 
wood,  sometimes  elaborately  carved  and  decorated.  As  you 
approach  the  door,  some  member  of  the  family  greets  you, 
frequently  in  English,  since  many  of  these  people  have  been  in 
America.  If  you  desire  to  spend  the  night,  you  ask  for  rooms. 
If  you  merely  require  dinner,  you  can  be  quickly  served; 
or  if  your  purpose  is  to  drive  on  still  farther,  you  simply 
order  fresh  horses.  For  these  we  never  waited  more  than 
fifteen  minutes,  though  sometimes,  in  the  height  of  the  season, 
serious  delays  take  place.  On  this  account  it  is  better  to  pre- 
cede the  crowd  of  tourists,  and  visit  Norway  early  in  the 
summer.  Such  has  been  my  experience,  at  least;  and  judg- 
ing from  some  stones  I  have  heard  of  tourists  sleeping 
on  the  floor  and  dressing  on  the  back  piazza,  I  should  em- 
phatically recommend  this  rule  to  all  adventurers  in  the  land 
of  Thor. 


FINE   NORWEGIAN    STATION. 


26 


NORWAY 


A   CARIOLE. 


But  speaking 
of  Norwegian 
post-stations  re- 
minds one  of  the 
characteristic  ve- 
hicle of  Norway, 
—  the  cariole. 
This  is  by  no 
means  a  "  carry- 
all." It  is  a  little  gig,  intended  for  only  one  person.  True, 
the  boy  (or,  in  some  instances,  the  girl)  who  takes  the  horse 
back  after  you  have  done  with  it,  rides  behind.  His  seat  is 
your  valise,  and  his  weight  determines  the  subsequent  con 
dition  of  its  contents!  There  is  a  charming  lightness  in  these 
carioles.  The  springs  are  good,  and  the  seat  is  easy.  A 
leather  apron  reaches  to  your  waist  to  shield  you  from  the 
dust  or  rain;  and,  drawn  by  a  Norwegian  pony,  such  a  drive 
is  wonderfully  exhilarating. 

These- little  carriages  have,  however,  one  great  fault, — 
their  want  of  sociability.  The  linguistic  powers  of  a  Norwe- 
gian post-boy  are  extremely  limited ;  and  when  you  have 
ridden  ten  hours 
a  day,  unable  to 
exchange  a  word 
with  your  friends 
except  by  shout- 
ing, the  drive  be- 
comes  a  trifle 
wearisome.  But 
the  reader  may 
ask:  "Is  there 
not  sometimes 
great  discomfort 
in  traveling  by 


THE   NATIONAL  VEHICLE. 


NORWAY 


LUXURY   IN   NORWAY. 


carioles  in  rainy 
weather?  "  As- 
suredly there  is. 
But  in  such 
weather  one  is 
not  obliged  to 
take  a  cariole. 
Norway  has 
other  vehicles. 
We  drove,  for 

example,  about  a  hundred  and  thirty  miles  in  a  sort  of 
victoria,  the  rear  of  which  could  be  entirely  covered  in 
case  of  rain.  This,  all  in  all,  I  hold  to  be  the  best  con- 
veyance for  the  tourist  in  Norway,  especially  when  ladies 
are  of  the  party.  I  know  that:  such  a  carriage  is  considered 
too  luxurious  by  the  English;  but  I  am  sure  that  Ameri- 
can ladies  will  gain  more  pleasure  and  profit  from  Norwegian 
travel  if  they  do  not  attempt  to  drive  all  day  in  carioles; 
and  if  beneath  the  canopy  provided  they  keep  their  cloth- 
ing dry. 

At  home  we  would  not  think  of  driving  forty  miles  a  day 
in  an  open  wagon  through  the  rain;  why,  then,  should 
we  do  it  unnecessarily  in  Norway, 
where  showers  are  proverbially  both 
frequent  and  copious?  As  for  the  fun 
and  novelty  of  cariole-riding,  these 
can  always  be  had,  for  several  hours 
at  a  time,  between  one  station  and 
another,  even  if  one  has  engaged  a 
larger  carriage  for  the  entire  journey, 
for  the  cost  of  a  cariole  and  pony  for 
half  a  day  is  ludicrously  small,  and 
the  change  to  it,  occasionally,  well 
repays  the  slight  expenditure. 


A   PEASANT  GIRL. 


28 


NORWAY 


But  in  thus  speaking  of  the  cariole,  I  have  unwittingly 
put  the  cart  before  the  horse.  A  word  of  praise  must  certainly 
be  given  to  the  usual  Norwegian  steed.  Of  all  the  ponies  I 
have  ever  seen,  these  of  Norway  are  at  once  the  strongest, 


A   NORWEGIAN   PONY. 


prettiest,  and  most  lovable.  They  are  usually  of  a  delicate 
cream  color,  with  one  dark  line  along  the  back,  the  mane 
being  always  closely  cut.  These  ponies  are  employed  in  Norway 
almost  universally,  being  not  only  less  expensive  but  really 
more  en- 
during than 
the  larger 
horses.  For 
weeks  we 
drove  behind 
these  little 
animals,  till 
we  had  test- 
ed certainly 
seventy  -  five 

of  them,  and  never  once  did  we  observe  in  any  of  them  the 
slightest  ugliness  or  a  vicious  trait.  They  are,  moreover,  won- 
derfully sure-footed.  I  never  saw  one  stumble  or  go  lame. 
Possibly,  later  in  the  season,  when  much  over-worked,  they 


A    FARM    SCENE. 


NORWAY 


29 


may  not  have  the  spirit  which  we  found  in  them ;  but  in   our 
drives   of  more  than  two   hundred  miles   there  was  not  one 
which  did  not  cheerfully  re- 
spond  to   any   call. 

This  being  premised,  let 
us  really  begin  our  jour- 
ney. At  first  we  found  the 
scenery  more  beautiful  than 
grand.  In  many  places  I 
could  have  believed  myself 
in  portions  of  either  of  the 
American  states  of  New 
Hampshire  or  Vermont. 
Across  the  fields  I  often 
noticed  long,  dark  lines 
which,  in  the  distance,  look- 
ed like  hedges.  On  ex- 
amination, however,  these 
proved  to  be  wooden  fences, 
covered  with  new  -  mown 
grass ;  for,  in  this  way,  Nor- 
wegian farmers  ' '  make  hay 
while  the  sun  shines."  Some 
of  these  fences  are  very  low, 
but  others  have  considerable 
height.  Norwegian  farmers 
claim  that  grass  hung  thus, 
and  thoroughly  exposed  to 
wind  and  sun,  will  shed  the 
rain  and  dry  more  quickly 
than  if  left  upon  the  ground. 
Their  theory  seems  reasonable,  and  the  extent  of  the  hay 
crop,  which  is  very  important,  further  justifies  it.  There  is 
one  other  argument  in  favor  of  these  hay-racks,  —  during 


A   MAUD   MULLER. 


NORWAY 


all  other  seasons  of  the  year  they  serve  as  clothes-lines  for 
the  family  washing.  But  even  more  peculiar  than  the  fences 
were  the  vehicles  used  for  hauling  the  hay  into  Norwe- 

gian  barns.     We 

laughed  at  first 
sight  of  these 
rustic  carts. 
They  are  only  a 
trifle  larger  than 
a  good-sized 
cradle,  and  are 
perched  upon 
the  smallest 
wheels  I  ever 
saw  on  anything  except  a  toy.  Yet  there  is  good  reason 
for  their  use,  for  on  Norwegian  farms  the  loads  are  drawn, 
not  by  stout  oxen,  but  by  little  ponies. 
Moreover,  the  grass  is  often  cut  from 
the  edge  of  precipices,  or  in  deep 
ravines,  and  these  low  carts  are 
certainly  better  adapted  than  high 
and  heavy  ones  for  locomotion  in 
such  regions. 

While  thus  absorbed  in  agri- 
cultural reflections,  we  drove  up  to 
the  house  where  we  were  to  take 
supper.  A  pleasant-featured  girl, 
with  a  baby  in  her  arms,  invited 
us  to  enter.  She  spoke  Eng- 
lish perfectly,  having  been  born, 
as  we  learned,  in  Minneapolis. 
I  shall  never  forget  that  first  Norwegian  supper.  The  name 
for  the  evening  meal  in  Norway  is  "aftenmad,"  but  often- 
mad  would  better  express  it  in  English.  First,  there  were 


AT  A    FARM    HOUSE. 


NORWAY  31 

placed  before  us  five  different  kinds  of  cheese,,  the  most 
remarkable  of  which  was  a  tall  monument  of  chocolate-colored 
substance  made  from  goat's  milk.  This,  by  Norwegians, 
is  considered  perfectly  delicious;  but  for  a  month  I  shuddered 
at  it  regularly  three'  times  a  day.  Next  was  brought  in  a  jar 
containing  fish.  At  this  my  friend  smiled  joyfully. 


A    NORWEGIAN   HAY-FIELD. 


"Ah,"  he  exclaimed,  "here  is  fish!  Anything  in  the 
line  of  fish  I  can  eat  with  a  relish." 

He  drew  a  specimen  from  the  jar,  and  put  a  portion 
of  it  in  his  mouth.  A  look  of  horror  instantly  overspread 
his  face,  and,  covering  his  features  with  a  napkin,  he  left 
the  room  in  haste.  I  quickly  followed  him,  and  found  him 
in  the  back  yard  gazing  mournfully  at  some  Norwegian  swine. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  I  asked,  "do  you  prefer  pork 
to  fish?" 

"  I  believe  I  do,"  he  rejoined.  Then  turning  to  the  girl, 
who  had  followed  us,  he  inquired,  "  What  is  the  Norwegian 
word  for  pork?  " 


NORWAY 


"Griss,"*  was 
the  reply. 

"Thank  you," 
he  faltered,  "I 
don't  think  I 
will  take  any  to- 
day." 

"  Eh  "  (in  an 
aside  to  me), 
"had  n't  we  bet- 
ter drive  on? " 

"  Drive   on?  " 
I  cried.     "  Drive 
on,    when    there 
is  plenty  of  fish,  which  you  always  eat  with  so  much  relish?  " 
"  Great  heavens!  "  he  groaned,  "  that  was  too  much  even 
for  me.      It  was  a  raw  anchovy  dipped  in  vinegar. 

While  this  colloquy  was  taking  place,  we  re-entered  the 
dining-room  and  asked  for  bread.  We  were  amazed  to  see 
what  this  request  brought  forth.  Upon  a  plate  almost 
as  large  as  the  wheel  of  a  Norwegian  hay-cart  was  brought 
to  us  a  mound  of  circular  wafers  nearly  three  feet  in  circum- 
ference, and  each  about  as  thick  as  one  of  our  buckwheat  cakes. 


1  DO  YOU   PREFER   FORK  TO   FISH  ?  ' 


*  Pronounced  as  is  our  English  word  grease. 


NORWEGIAN   PEASANTS. 


NORWAY 


33 


They  were  made  of  rye  meal  and  water  (chiefly  water),  and 
were  so  crisp  that  they  would  break  to  pieces  at  a  touch. 
This  is  called  "  flatbrod,"  and  it  is  certainly  in  every  sense  the 
flattest  article  ever  invented  for  the  human  stomach.  The 
people,  however,  are  fond  of  it,  and  I  saw  horses  eat  it  fre- 
quently, mistaking  it  (quite  naturally,  I  am  sure)  for  tablets 
of  compressed  hay. 

But  here  I  shall  probably  be  asked,  "  Is  this  the  usual 
state  of  things  in  Norway?"  No,  this  first  station  was 
unusually  poor.  The  staple  article  of  food  in  Norway 
(always  fresh  and  good)  is  salmon.  Milk  and  sweet  butter 
can  also  be  had,  and  eggs  ad  libitum.  In  fact,  the  abund- 
ance of  "eggs  here  is  probably  responsible  for  the  atrocious 
witticism  often  perpetrated  by  Norwegian  tourists,  to  the 
effect  that  "if  the  sun  does  not  set  in  Norway,  hens  do." 
Mutton  and  beef  are  not  obtainable,  save  at  the  large  hotels, 
their  places  being  usually  supplied  by  veal,  sausage  meat, 
or  reindeer  hash.  I  met,  while  traveling  here,  an  Englishman, 
who  said  to  me,  "  I  did  intend  to  drive  on  to  Christiania; 


34 


NORWAY 


but  I  really  can't,  you  know;  another  month  of  this  would 
kill  me.  In  the  last  two  weeks  I  have  eaten  so  many  of  these 
'  blasted  eggs  '  that  I  'm  ashamed  to  look  a  hen  in  the  face!  " 
Yet,  notwithstanding  the  hardships  which  the  traveler  meets 
in  Norway  in  regard  to  food,  he  will  find  all  discomforts 

easily  outweigh- 
ed by  the  en- 
joyment of  the 
trip.  The  con- 
stant exercise  in 
the  open  air 
gives  powers 
of  digestion 
hitherto  un- 
known, pre- 
ceded by  an  ap- 
petite  which 
laughs  at  every- 
thing,   

save  cheese.  Of 
course,  being  so 
far  from  any  city,  one  cannot  look  for  luxuries  at  these 
small  stations;  indeed,  I  was  surprised  to  find  that  the 
peasants  knew  enough  to  give  us,  during  a  meal,  several 
knives  and  forks,  hot  plates,  and  other  features  of  a  well- 
served  table.  And  as  far  as  prices  are  concerned,  they  are  so 
moderate  as  to  provoke  a  smile  from  any  one  accustomed  to 
travel  in  other  parts  of  Europe. 

Yes,  all  ordinary  discomforts  sink  into  insignificance, 
as  I  recall  those  memorable  drives,  day  after  day  and  hour 
after  hour,  over  lofty  mountains,  through  noble  forests,  and 
beside  stupendous  cliffs,  the  only  sounds  about  us  being 
the  songs  of  birds  and  the  perpetual  melody  of  numberless 
cascades.  Moreover,  this  mode  of  travel  gave  us  the  energy 


A  TRAVELER'S  PARADISE. 


NORWAY 


35 


of  athletes.  For  how  can  I  describe  the  invigoration  and 
sweetness  of  the  air  of  Norway,  —  pure  from  its  miles  of 
mountains,  —  rich  with  the  fragrance  of  a  billion  pines,  and 
freshened  by  its  passage  over  northern  glaciers  and  the  Arctic 
sea? 

As  for  Norwegian  roads,  they  are  among  the  finest  in  the 
world.  The  majority  of  them  are  flanked  with  telegraph-poles; 
for  not  only  are  these  routes  magnificent  specimens  of  man's 
triumph  over  nature,  but  the  lightning  also  is  controlled  here, 
and,  swift  as 
light,  thought 
wings  its  way  up- 
on a  metal  wire 
through  this  in- 
land waste,  —  a 
marvel  always 
wonderful  and 
ever  new.  Na- 
ture has  given 
to  these  scenes 
the  trees  and 
rocks  which 
yield  to  nothing 
but  the  wintry 
blasts.  Man 
has  suspended 
here  a  thread  of  steel,  which  thrills  responsive  to  the  thoughts 
of  thousands,  transmitting  through  -the  gloomiest  gorges  the 
messages  of  love,  hope,  exultation,  or  despair.  Hence  one  can 
never  feel  completely  isolated  here.  That  little  wire  enables 
him  at  any  point  to  vanquish  space,  and  by  placing,  as  it  were, 
a  finger  on  the  pulse  of  life,  to  feel  the  heart-beats  of  the 
world. 

In  1888,  two  American  gentlemen  were  traveling  in  Norway, 


A   NORWEGIAN    HIGHWAY. 


36  NORWAY 

one  of  whom  grew  depressed  at  his  apparent  isolation  from 
humanity=  His  comrade,  to  astonish  and  console  him,  tele- 
graphed from  one  of  the  post-houses  where  they  had  stopped 
for  dinner,  to  the  American  consul  at  Christiania.  The 
message  which  he  sent  was  this : 


APPARENT  ISOLATION. 


"  Who  was  the  Democratic  nominee  for  President  yester- 
day in  Chicago?  " 

Before  the  meal  was  finished,  the  answer  had  arrived: 

"  Grover  Cleveland." 

Some  of  the  roads  on  which  we  traveled  here  are  cut 
directly  through  the  mountains.  We  found  such  tunnels 
quite  agreeable,  since  they  furnished  the  only  genuine  dark- 
ness to  be  found.  So  far  as  light  is  concerned,  one  may  drive 
through  Norway  in  the  summer  just  as  well  by  night  as  by 
day.  Early  and  late  indeed  are  words  which  in  this  region 
grow  meaningless.  I  could  not  keep  a  diary  in  Norway,  so 
difficult  was  it  to  tell  when  yesterday  ended  and  to-day 


NORWAY 


37 


began.  At  first  this  seemed  a  great  economy  of  time.  We 
felt  that  we  were  getting  some  advantage  over  Mother 
Nature.  "Why  not  drive  on  another  twenty  miles?"  we 
asked;  "  we  can  enjoy  the  scenery  just  as  well;  "  or,  "  Why 
not  write  a  few  letters  now?  It 

is  still  light.  ^^        ir"        *^***~-^^          In  fact,  why 

go  to  bed         ^^__  «Sk.        at  all?" 

But  X^Mfl  ^$fe^         after 


A   LAND  OF   PERPETUAL   SUNLIGHT. 


a  time 
this  everlast- 
ing daylight  grew 
a  trifle  wearisome. 
It  thoroughly  demoralized  both  our  brains  and  our  stomachs, 
from  the  unheard  of  hours  it  occasioned  for  eating  and 
sleeping.  Steamers  will  start  in  Norway  at  five  o'clock 
in  the  morning,  or  even  at  midnight.  I  once  sat  down 
to  a  table  cT hote  dinner  at  half-past  nine,  and  on  another 
occasion  ate  a  lunch  in  broad  daylight  at  two  o'clock  in  the 
morning.  Moreover,  even  when  we  went  to  bed  the  sun's 


NORWAY 


rays  stole  be- 
tween our  eye- 
lids, and  dis- 
pelled that 
darkness  which 
induces  slum 
her.  For, 
strangely 
enough,  there 
are  rarely  any 
blinds  or  shut- 
ters to  Norwe- 
gian windows. 
Only  a  thin, 
white  curtain 
screened  u  s 
usually  from  the  glare  of  day.  After  a  while,  therefore,  I 
could  sympathize  with  an  American  lady,  whom  I  heard 


NORWEGIAN   BOULDERS. 


NORWAY 


39 


exclaim,  "  O,  I  would  give  anything  for  a  good,  pitch-dark 
night  twenty -four  hours  long!  " 

One  characteristic  of  these  roads  made  on  my  mind  a 
profound  impres- 
sion, namely,  the 
boulders  that  have 
been  split  off  from 
overhanging  peaks 
by  frost  and  ava- 
lanche. This  is  a 
feature  of  Norwe- 
gian scenery  that 
I  have  never  seen 
equaled  in  the 
world.  Sometimes 
we  drove  through 
such  debris  for  half 
an  hour.  Nor  is 
there  the  least  ex- 
aggeration in  the 
statement  that 
these  boulders  are 
in  many  instances 
as  large  as  a  house  ; 
yet,  when  compar- 
ed with  the  gigan- 
tic cliffs  from  which 
they  came,  even 
such  monsters 
seemed  like  pebbles.  Some  of  these  cliffs  were  frightful  in 
appearance.  Again  and  again,  when  we  had  passed  beneath 
some  precipice,  one  third  of  whose  mass  seemed  only  waiting 
for  a  thunder-peal  to  bring  it  down,  my  friend  and  I  would 
draw  a  long,  deep  breath,  and  exchange  glances  of  congratu- 


A   NORWAY   PRECIPICE. 


NORWAY 


A    CHARACTERISTIC   CASCADE 


listen,    and    you    will 
surf    upon    the     shore. 

On  our  jour- 
ney toward  the 
coast,  during  a 
drive  of  three 
days  we  count- 
ed one  hundred 
and  sixty  sepa- 
rate falls,  and 
eighty  -  six  in 
the  previous 
ten  hours.  This 
was  an  average 
of  more  than 
two  in  every 
fifteen  minutes. 
True,  we  saw 


lation     when    we     had 
escaped  its  terrors. 

A  still  more  won- 
derful feature  of  Nor- 
wegian scenery  is  found 
in  its  imposing  water- 
falls. Nothing  in  Nor- 
way so  astonished  me 
as  the  unending  num- 
ber and  variety  of  its 
cascades,  —  ribbons  of 
silver,  usually,  in  the 
distance,  but  foaming 
torrents  close  at  hand. 
On  any  of  these  roads, 
halt  for  a  moment  and 
often  hear  a  sound  like  that  of  the 
It  is  the  voice  of  falling  water. 


A  THING  OF   BEAUTY. 


VIEW  NEAR   BORGUND, 


NORWAY 


43 


- 


these  cascades  in  the  month  of  June,  when  snow  was  melting 
rapidly  on  the  heights;  but  even  in  midsummer  they  must 
far  outnumber  those  in  any  other  part  of  Europe. 

In  fact,  although  familiar  with  the  Alps,  and  having  driven 
twice  through  all  the  valleys  of  the  Pyrenees,  I  never  knew 
how  many  waterfalls  one  country  could  possess  until  I  went 
to  Norway.  There  are,  of  course,  magnificent  falls  in  Switzer- 
land, and  a  great  number  of  them  in  the  Pyrenees;  but  where 
you  there  see  one  cas- 
cade, in  Norway  you 
see  twenty;  and  many 
a  Norwegian  cataract 
which  would  in  Switz- 
erland draw  thousands 
of  admiring  tourists, 
and  make  the  fortune 
of  hotel  proprietors,  is 
here,  perhaps,  without 
a  name,  and  certainly 
without  renown. 

On  our  last  day's 
journey  toward  the 
sea,  we  came  in  sight 
of  an  extraordinary 
building,  on  which  we  gazed  in  great  astonishment,  for  it 
seemed  more  appropriate  to  China  than  to  Norway,  and 
was  apparently  completely  out  of  place  in  this  wild, 
desolate  ravine.  It  was  the  famous  Borgund  Church,  a 
place  of  early  Christian  worship,  built  about  eight  hundred 
years  ago.  It  therefore  ranks  (unless  one  other  similar  church 
be  excepted)  as  the  oldest  structure  in  all  Norway.  It  is  so 
small  that  one  could  almost  fancy  it  a  church  for  dwarfs. 
Around  the  base  is  a  kind  of  cloister,  from  which  the  dim 
interior  receives  its  only  light.  Within  is  one  small  room, 


JX- 

BORGUND   CHURCH. 


44 


NORWAY 


A    GIRL   OF    NOKWAV. 


scarcely  forty  feet  long,  con- 
taining now  no  furniture  save 
a  rough-hewn  altar.  As  for 
its  various  roofs  and  pinna- 
cles, marked  now  by  crosses, 
now  by  dragons'  heads,  noth- 
ing could  be  more  weirdly 
picturesque,  especially  as  the 
entire  edifice  is  black, — in 
part  from  age,  but  chiefly 
from  the  coats  of  tar  with 
which  it  has  been  painted  for 
protection. 

Leaving  this  ancient  church, 
we  soon  found  ourselves  in  one 

of  the  most  stupendous  of  Norwegian  gorges.      It  is  hardly 

possible  for  any  view  to  do  it  justice.      But  for  awe-inspiring 

grandeur  I  have  never  seen  its  magnificence  surpassed,  even 

in  the  Via  Mala.     For  miles 

the    river    Laerdal    makes 

its    way    here    through    gi- 
gantic   cliffs,   which  rise   on 

either  side    to   a    height    of 

from   four  thousand  to  five 

thousand  feet.      The   space, 

however,    between    these 

mountain    sides    is    barely 

wide   enough   for  the  river, 

which  writhes  and  struggles 

with    obstructing    boulders, 

lashing    itself    to     creamy 

foam,  and  filling  the  chasm 

with  a  deafening  roar.     Yet, 

above  the  river,  a  roadway 


AN   OPEN-AIR 


SELTUNSAASEN    IN    LAERDAL. 


NORWAY 


47 


A    LANDING    PLACE. 


has  been  hewn 
out  of  the  moun- 
tain-side itself, 
which  is  lined 
with  parapets  of 
boulders.  When 
marking  out  the 
route  the  engi- 
neers were  often 
lowered  over 
the  precipice  by  ropes.  One  can  imagine  nothing  more 
exciting  than  this  drive.  When  mountains  did  not  actually 
overshadow  us,  in  looking  aloft  we  could  discern  only  a 
narrow  rift  of  sky,  like  a  blue  river,  curbed  by  granite  banks. 
Below  us  was  the  seething  flood,  at  once  terrible  and  glor- 
ious to  look  upon.  Shut  in  by  these  huge,  somber  walls,  we 
followed  all  the  windings  of  the  stream,  whirling  about  their 
corners  at  a  speed  which  seemed  the  more  terrific  from  our 
wild  surroundings.  There  are  few  things  in  life  that  have 
affected  me  so  powerfully  as  the  Laerdal  gorge,  and  I  would 
once  more  go  to  Norway  for  that  drive  alone.  Certain  it  is 
that  at  the  end  of  it  we  found  ourselves  exhausted,  not  phy- 
sically, but  nervously,  from  the  tremendous  tension  and 
excitement  of  the  last  few  hours  in  this  wild  ravine.  Finally, 


LAERDALSOREN 


48 


NORWAY 


leaving  this  sublime  mountain  scenery,  we  saw  between  us 
and  the  coast  our  destination — the  little  town  of  Laerdal- 
soren.  Thrilled  though  we  were  with  memories  of  what  we 
had  just  seen,  and  grateful,  too,  that  our  long  drive  from 
sea  to  sea  had  been  successfully  completed,  our  serious 
reflections  vanished  at  the  threshold  of  this  village.  My 
companion  had  found  it  hard  to  be  so  long  deprived  of 
news  from  home.  Accordingly,  he  remarked  to  me  as  we 
came  in  sight  of  Laerdalsoren : 

"  I  somehow  feel  to-day  a  great  anxiety  about  my  boys, 
William  and  Henry.  I  am  not  superstitious,  but  I  have 
a  presentiment  that  they  need  me.  Hark!"  he  said  sud- 
denly, ".what  's  that?  " 

We  stopped  the  vehicle  and  listened.  It  was  the  music 
of  an  English  hand-organ ;  and  I  am  speaking  only  the  literal 
truth  when  I  say  that  the  tune  which  we  then  heard  it  play 
was  that  of  "  Father,  dear  father,  come  home  with  me  now." 


NORWAY 


49 


Early  next  morning  we  left  our  good  hotel  and  hastened 
to  the  steamer  which  awaited  us  upon  the  fjord.  "What, 
precisely,  is  a  fjord?"  some  may  inquire.  In  briefest  terms, 
it  is  a  mountain  gorge  connected  with  the  ocean,  a  narrow 
arm  of  the  sea  extending  inland,  sometimes  for  one  hundred 
miles.  Moreover,  to  carry  out  the  simile,  at  the  extremity  of 
every  such  long 
arm  are  ' '  fin- 
gers; "  that  is, 
still  narrower  ex- 
tensions, which 
wind  about  the 
bases  of  the 
mountains  till 
they  seem  like 
glittering  ser- 
pents lying  in 
the  shadow  of 
tremendous 
cliffs. 

Thus  in   one 
sense,    here    at  A  FJORD. 

Laerdalsoren,  we  had  reached  the  sea,  but  in  another,  it 
was  still  eighty-five  miles  away.  Yet  we  were  now  to 
embark  on  a  large  ocean  steamer,  lying  but  a  few  yards 
from  the  shore,  for  these  mysterious  fjords  are  sometimes 
quite  as  deep  as  the  mountains  over  them  are  high.  They 
open  thus  the  very  heart  of  Norway  to  the  commerce 
of  the  world.  And  as  our  steamer  glided  from  one  moun- 
tain-girdled basin  into  another,  I  realized  why  this  western 
coast  of  Norway  is  one  of  the  most  remarkable  land-forma- 
tions on  the  globe.  If  we  were  able  to  look  down  upon  it 
from  an  elevation,  we  should  perceive  that  from  the  moun- 
tain chain,  which  forms,  as  it  were,  the  backbone  of  the  coun- 


NORWAY 


try,  a  multitude  of  grooves  stretch  downward  to  the  shore 
between  the  elevations,  like  spaces  between  the  teeth  of  a  comb. 
Into  these  mountain  crevices,  formed  in  the  misty  ages  of  the 
past,  the  sea  now  makes  its  way,  continually  growing  narrower, 
until  at  last  it  winds  between  frowning  cliffs  of  fearful  height, 
down  which  stream  numerous  waterfalls,  the  spray  from  which 

at  times  sweeps 
over  the  steamer 
as  it  glides  along. 
Traveling,  there- 
fore, on  these 
ocean  avenues 
is  like  sailing 


AN   ARM   OF  THE   SEA. 

through  Switzer- 
land. 

Delighted  be- 
yond measure 
with  this  new  ex- 
perience, some 
two  or  three 
hours  after  leav- 
ing Laerdalsoren,  we  gradually  approached  the  most  sublime 
of  all  these  ocean  highways,  —  the  Naerofjord.  No  general 
view  can  possibly  portray  its  grandeur.  The  only  way  to 
appreciate  the  vastness  of  its  well-nigh  perpendicular  cliffs 
is  to  compare  them  with  some  objects  on  the  banks.  In 
many  places,  for  example,  cattle  grazing  on  the  shore,  com- 
pared with  their  giant  environment,  seemed  like  mice,  and  a 
church  steeple  appeared  no  larger  than  a  pine-cone. 

As  we  sailed   further  up   this  beautiful   expanse,  i  it   was 
difficult  to  realize  that  we  were  floating  on  an  arm  of  the 


SAILING  THROUGH    SWITZERLAND. 


NORWAY 


53 


Atlantic.  It  had  the  appearance  rather  of  a  gloomy  lake 
shut  in  by  mountains  never  trodden  by  the  foot  of  man. 
On  either  side  was  a  solemn  array  of  stupendous  precipices  — 
sheer,  awful  cliffs  —  refusing  even  the  companionship  of  pines 
and  hemlocks,  and  frequently  resembling  a  long  chain  of  ice- 
bergs turned  to  stone.  The  silence,  too,  was  most  impressive. 
There  was,  at  times,  no  sign  of  life  on  sea  or  shore.  The  influ- 
ence of  this  was 
felt  upon  the 
boat,  for  if  any 
of  us  spoke,  it 
was  in  a  tone 
subdued  by  the 
solemnity  of  our 
surroundings. 

As  we  pur- 
sued our  way, 
sometimes  we 
could  discern  no 
outlet  whatever; 
then,  suddenly, 
our  course 
would  turn,  and 
another  glorious  vista  would  appear  before  us.  We  sat 
at  the  prow  of  the  boat;,  and  there,  with  nothing  but  the 
awe-inspiring  prospect  to  contemplate,  we  sailed  along  in  silence 
through  this  liquid  labyrinth.  So  close  together  were  the  cliffs, 
that  when,  for  the  sake  of  the  experiment,  I  lay  down  on  the 
deck  and  looked  directly  upward,  I  could  at  the  same  instant 
see  both  sides  of  the  fjord  cutting  their  outlines  sharply  on  the 
sky!  Mile  after  mile,  these  grim,  divided  mountains  stood 
gazing  into  each  other's  scowling  faces,  yet  kept  apart  by  this 
enchanting  barrier  of  the  sea,  as  some, fair  woman  intervenes 
between  two  opposing  rivals,  each  thirsting  for  the  other's 


CONTINUALLY   GROWING   NARROWER. 


54 


NORWAY 


blood.      It  is  such  scenery  as  Dante  might  describe  and  Dor6 
illustrate.       We    wondered    what    such   ravines    would    look 
like  without  water. 
They  would  be  ter- 
*  -rible    to    gaze 


WALLS  OF  A   FJORD. 

upon.     They  would   resemble 

HUV 
+\  ^  gashes  in  a  dead   man's  face, 

or  chasms  on  the  surface  of 
the  moon,  devoid  of  atmos- 
phere and  life.  But  water 
gives  to  them  vitality,  and 
lights  up  all  their  gloomy  gorges  with  a  silvery  flood,  much 
as  a  smile  illumines,  while  it  softens,  a  furrowed  face. 


NORWAY 


57 


Nor  is  the 
water  in  these 
fjords  less  mar- 
velous than  the 
land.  Its  depth, 
in  places,  is  es-' 
timated  at  three 
thousand  feet. 
When  we  sailed 
up  the  N-aero- 
fjord,  its  color 
was  so  green, 
and  its  surface 
so  completely 
motionless,  that 
we  seemed  to 
be  gliding  over  a  highway  paved  with  malachite.  Whether 
the  coloring  of  these  ocean  avenues  is  due  to  their  great  depth, 
to  the  crystal  clearness  of  the  atmosphere,  or  to  the  reflection 
of  the  forests  on  their  banks,  certain  it  is  that  I  have  nowhere 
else  (save  in  the  blue  grotto 
at  Capri)  seen  water  tinted 
with  such  shades  of  robin's- 
egg  blue  and  emerald  green. 
In  confirmation  of  this  fact, 


HEIGHTS  AND   DEPTHS. 


AN  OCEAN  AVENUE. 


NORWAY 


A  SUBLIME  WATERFALL, 


we  noticed  with  astonishment 
that  whenever  the  white  seagulls, 
wheeling  round  -our  boat,  would 
sink  breast  downward  toward 
the  waves,  the  color  of  the  sea 
was  so  intense,  that  their  white 
wings  distinctly  changed  their 
hue  in  the  reflected  light,  assum- 
ing a  most  delicate  tint,  which 
gradually  vanished  as  they  rose 
again ! 

After  a  sail  of  several  hours, 
we  approached  the  terminus  of 
the  Naerofjord,  at  which  is' lo- 
cated the  little  hamlet  of  Gudvan- 
gen.  So  narrow  is  the  valley 
here,  that  through  the  winter 
months  no  ray  of  sunlight  falls 
directly  on  the  town,  and  even  in 
the  longest  day  in  summer  it  can 
receive  the  sunshine  only  for  a 
few  hours.  It  seemed  depressing 
to  remain  in  such  eternal  shadow. 
Accordingly,  we  halted  only  a 
few  moments  at  the  place,  and 
taking  a  carriage  which  awaited 
us,  we  drove  beyond  the  village 
into  the  ravine  so  celebrated  for 
its  grandeur — the  Naerodal.  One 
sees  at  once  that  this  is  really  a 
continuation  of  the  Naerofjord 
without  the  water.  There  can 
be  little  doubt  that,  formerly,  the 
ocean  entered  it,  and  one  could 


NORWAY 


61 


then  have  sailed  where  we  now  had  to  drive.  And  what 
is  true  of  the  Naerodal  is  also  true  of  other  such  ravines.  In 
every  case  the  grooved  hollows  continue  inland  and  upward , 
but  the  gradual  elevation  of  the  coast  has  caused  the  ocean 
to  retreat.  This  is  a  place  of  great  sublimity.  On  either 
side  rise  mountains  from  four  to  five  thousand  feet  in  height  — 
sometimes  without  a  vestige  of  vegetation  on  their  precipitous 
sides —  which 
are,  however, 
seamed  with 
numberless  cas- 
cades,  appar- 
ently hung  up- 
on the  cliffs  like 
silver  chains. 

The  most 
remarkable  ob- 
ject in  the  val- 
ley we  found  to 
be  a  peculiarly 
shaped  moun- 
tain, called  the 
Jordalsnut.  Its 
form  is  that  of 

a  gigantic  thimble,  and  as  its  composition  is  a  silvery  feld- 
spar, it  fairly  glitters  in  the  sun,  or  glows  resplendent  in  the 
evening  light,  — an  object  never  to  be  forgotten.  Those  who 
have  looked  upon  this  dome  by  moonlight  say  that  the  effect 
is  indescribable;  and,  in  fact,  moonlight  in  these  awful  gorges 
and  fjords  must  give  to  them  a  beauty  even  more  weird  and 
startling  than  that  of  day.  Of  this,  however,  I  cannot  speak 
from  experience,  since  moonlight  is  in  summer  very  faint 
in  Norway,  and  it  is  only  earlier  or  later  in  the  year  that 
one  can  see  this  wonderful  country  thus  transfigured. 


THE  NAERODAL. 


62 


NORWAY 


In  driving  up  the  Naerodal,  one  sees,  at  the  head  of  the 
valley,  what  looks  like  an  irregular  chalk-line  on  a  blackboard. 
It  is  a  famous  carriage-road,  which  has  been  blasted  out  of  the 
mountain-side,  and  built  up  everywhere  with  solid  masonry. 
Even  now  it  is  so  difficult  of  ascent  for  horses  that  every  trav- 
eler who  is  able 
usually  climbs 
that  curving 
road  on  foot. 

In  doing  so, 
we  stopped  at 
intervals  to  en- 
joy the  marvel- 
ous scenery,  and 
especially  to  be- 
hold the  two  at- 
tractive features 
of  the  mountain. 
For  this  grand 
terminus  of  the 
Naerodal  is 
flanked  on  either 
side  by  a  magnif- 
icent waterfall ; 
and  since  the 
path  continually 

THE  JORDALSNUT.  CUWCS,       OttC        OT 

the  other  of  these  torrents  is  constantly  visible.  Either  of 
them  is  the  equal  of  any  Swiss  cascade  I  ever  saw,  and  makes 
even  the  famous  Giessbach  sink  into  insignificance,  and  yet 
these  are  not  ranked  among  the  best  Norwegian  specimens. 
We  could  not,  however,  appreciate  them  as  we  should  have 
done  if  they  had  been  the  first  that  we  had  seen ;  for  when  a 
tourist  has  counted  eighty-six  cascades  in  one  day's  drive, 


NORWAY 


and  has  just  run 
the  gauntlet  of 
some  twenty 
more,  in  sailing 
through  the 
Naerofjord,  he 
becomes  sur- 
feited  with  such 
splendor,  and 
cannot  properly 
realize  what  a 
glorious  wealth 
in  this  respect 
Norwegian  scen- 
ery possesses. 

STALHEIM. 

Upon     the 

summit  of  the  wooded  cliff  toward  which  this  driveway  leads, 
is  a  speck  which  at  a  distance  resembles  a  white  flag  out- 
lined on  the  forest  background.  It  is  the  Hotel  Stalheim. 
As  we  approached  it,  a  man  stepped  up  to  us  and  exclaimed: 

"  Hullo,  strang- 
ers; are  you 
Americans?  " 

"  I  am  glad  to 
say  that  we  are, ' ' 
was  my  reply. 

He  instantly 
stretched  out 
his  hand  and 
said  "Shake!"— 
"What  kind  of 
business  are  you 
in  ?  "  he  present- 


THE  VIEW   FROM   STALHEIM. 


ly  inquired. 


64 


NORWAY 


We  told  him. 
"Well,"    he     re- 
marked,       "  I  'm      a 

manufacturer  of  bar- 

• 

rel  hoops.  Norway  's 
all  right .  I  took 
an  order  for  forty 
thousand  yesterday." 
At  the  dinner 
table,  where  he  had 
greatly  amused  every 
one  by  his  stories,  he 

THE   KAISER   AT   STALHEIM.  Suddenly       Called       OUt  '. 

"  Waiter,  is   there  anything  worth   seeing  on  that  'ere  road 
down  there?  " 

"  It  is  one  of  the  finest  drives  in  Norway,  sir,"  replied  the 
waiter. 

"Well,  I  reckon  I  '11  have  to  do  it,  then,"  he  ejaculated: 
and  soon  after 
dinner  he  de- 
parted in  a  car- 
iole.  An  hour 
later,  as  I  was 
sitting  on  the 
piazza  gazing  on 
the  glorious 
prospect,  I  saw 
him  coming 
back.  "  How  is 
this?"  I  ex- 
claimed; "I 
thought  you 
were  going  to 
Gudvangen." 


A   SCENE  NEAR   STALHEIM. 


A   LOVELY  CASCADE. 


NORWAY  67 

"  No,"  he  replied;  "  I  got  down  here  apiece,  and  met  a 
boy.  '  Bub,'  says  I,  '  what  is  there  to  see  down  here,  any- 
way?' 

"  'Waterfalls,'  said  he. 

"  '  Waterfalls!  '  says  I,  '  I  don't  want  any  more  water- 
falls. I  've  seen  ten  thousand  of  them  already.  Why,  our 
Niagara  would  n't  roar  one  mite  louder,  if  the  whole  lot 
of  these  Norwegian  falls  were  chucked  right  into  it.'  ' 

I  must  not  fail  to  add  that  there  was  an  extremely  pretty 
girl  at  the  hotel,  to  whom  our  eccentric  compatriot  paid  much 
attention.  Some  English  travelers,  therefore,  looked  greatly 
puzzled  when  they  heard  him  say  to  her  on  taking  leave: 
"Good-by!  I  hope  / '//  strike  you  again  somewhere  on  the 
road!" 

After  supper  that  evening  we  took  an  extended  walk.  It 
was  eleven  o'clock,  and  yet  the  snow-capped  mountains  which 
surrounded  us  were  radiant  with  the  sunset  glow.  We  pres- 
ently encountered  two  young  peasants  returning  from  their 


"  GATES  AJAR." 


68 


NORWAY 


work.  To  them  we  spoke  a  few  Norsk  words  that  we  had 
learned  since  coming  to  Norway,  whereupon  one  of  the  lads 
drew  from  his  pocket  a  pamphlet  and  presented  it  to  me  with 
a  polite  bow.  It  proved  to  be  a  book  of  phrases,  half-Eng- 
lish and  half-Norsk,  designed  to  help  Norwegian  emigrants 

on  landing  in 
America.  Not 
knowing,  how- 
ever, what  it 
was  at  first,  I 
opened  it  and 
could  hardly  be- 
lieve my  eyes, 
when,  in  this 
lonely  valley  in 
the  heart  of 
Norway,  and  by 
the  light  of  a 
midnight  sun 
I  read  these 


ALL  READY  TO  "  SHAKE   HANDS."  WOrdS  '          '  '    \Vake 

up!  Here  we  are  in  Chicago!"  "Change  cars  for  Omaha 
and  the  West!  "  Don't  lean  out  of  the  window,  or  you  '11 
have  your  head  knocked  off!  " 

Both  of  these  bright  boys  hoped  the  next  summer  to 
"wake  up  in  Chicago."  It  is,  in  fact,  the  great  desire  of 
Norwegian  youths  to  go  to  America,  and  some  are  brave 
enough  to  do  so  with  a  capital  of  only  twenty-five  dollars. 
Their  knowledge  of  the  United  States  is,  of  course,  limited, 
but  one  place  there  is  known  to  all  of  them.  Again  and 
again  we  were  subjected  to  the  following  questions:  "Are 
.you  English?  " 

"No." 

"  Americans?  " 


NORWAY 


69 


"Yes." 

"CHICAGO?" 

That  was  the  place  for  them,  evidently-  New  York  is  bet- 
ter than  nothing,  but  Chicago  is  the  El  Dorado  of  the  Scan- 
dinavians, for  to  that  place  they  usually  buy  through-tickets, 
as  to  the  doorway  of  the  great  Northwest. 

Leaving  the  Hotel  Stalheim,  after  a  short  stay,  a  glorious 
drive  awaited  us  down  to  the  Hardanger  Fjord.  At  frequent 
intervals  along  this  route  we  encountered  gates  designed  to 
keep  the  cattle  within  certain  limits.  Women  and  children 
usually  stood  near-by  to  open  them,  expecting  in  return  a 
trifling  payment.  Yet  when  I  offered  them  a  coin,  I  was 
sometimes  surprised  to  see  their  hands  still  lingering  near  my 
own.  At  first  I  thought 
that  they,  like  Oliver  Twist, 
were  asking  for  more,  but 
presently  I  discovered  that 
they  merely  wished  to  shake 
hands  and  say  good-by,  for 
hand-shaking  in  Norway  is 
universal.  If  you  bestow  a 
fee  upon  your  cariole-boy, 
your  boot-black,  or  your 
chambermaid,  each  will  offer 
his  or  her  hand  to  you  and 
wish  you  a  happy  journey. 
A  pleasant  custom,  truly, 
but,  on  the  whole,  it  is  ad- 
visable for  travelers  in  Nor- 
way to  wear  gloves.  I  usually  responded  cheerfully  to  this 
mode  of  salutation,  though  sometimes,  when  I  saw  what 
kind  of  a  hand  the  peasant  "held,"  —I  "passed!" 

As  we  drove  on,  we  noticed  here  and  there  the  houses  of 
the  poorer  farmers.  They  are  invariably  made  of  wood,  and 


A  PEASANT'S  COTTAGE. 


NORWAY 


some,  constructed  out  of  huge  spruce  logs,  look  as  enduring 
as  the  hills  that  surround  them.  The  roofs  are  covered 
first  with  pieces  of  birch-bark,  laid  on  the  logs  like  shingles. 
On  these  are  placed  two  layers  of  sod  —  the  upper  one  with 
its  grassy  surface  toward  the  sky.  This  grass  is  sometimes 
mown  for  hay.  Occasionally  a  homoeopathic  crop  of  grain 

will  grow  here. 
In  almost  every 
case  the  top  of 
the  house  looks 
like  a  flower- 
garden  ;  and  I 
once  saw  a 
bearded  goat 
getting  his 
breakfast  on  his 
master's  roof. 

Occasionally, 
a  little  distance 
from  the  house, 
we  saw  another 
smaller  struc- 
ture, built  be- 
side a  river;  for  the  water-power  of  Norway  is  made  use  of 
in  some  simple  way  by  almost  all  the  country  people.  Many 
a  peasant  has  a  tiny  water-wheel  which  turns  a  grindstone, 
or  even  a  mill,  and  thus  his  scythes  are  sharpened  and  his 
grain  is  ground  on  his  own  premises.  Such  farmers,  there- 
fore, are  their  own  millers,  and  frequently  their  own  black- 
smiths, too,  and  they  can  shoe  their  ponies  with  consider- 
able skill. 

In  traveling  through  Norway  it  is  most  interesting  to 
observe  how  the  people  utilize  every  available  portion  of  the 
land.  Wire  ropes  extend  from  the  valleys  up  the  mountain 


RURAL   LIFE. 


NORWAY 


73 


A   BEAST  OF    BURDEN. 


sides,  and    are    used    for    letting   down 

bundles  of  compressed  hay,  after  it  has 

been  reaped,   gathered,  and  packed  on 

some  almost  inaccessible  plateau.     On 

elevations,  where     it    seems    well-nigh 

impossible  for  man  to  gain  a  foothold, 

people  will  scramble,  at  the  hazard  of 

their    lives,   to    win  a  living    from    the 

little  earth  that  has  there  found  lodg- 
ment.    Seeing  with  our  own  eyes  these 

habitable  eyries,  we  could   well  believe 

what  we  were  told,  that  goats,  and  even 

children,  are  often  tied  for  safety  to  the 

door-posts,  and  that   the  members  of  a 

family  who  die  on  such  elevated  farms 

are  sometimes  lowered  by  ropes  a  thousand  feet  down  to  the 

valley  or  fjord. 

It  was  on  this  journey  that  I  took  my  first  and  never-to- 
be-forgotten  cariole-ride  in  Norway. 
On  this  occasion,  my  driver  was  a 
small  boy,  ten  years  old,  just  young 
and  mischievous  enough  to  laugh  at 
danger  and  be  reckless.  I  noticed 
that  his  mother  cautioned  him  be- 
fore we  started.  She  evidently 
understood  him.  I  did  not.  Ac- 
cordingly, while  I  took  the  reins,  I 
gave  him  the  whip.  Springing  like 
a  monkey  into  his  place  behind  me, 
he  cracked  his  whip  and  off  we 
went.  The  road  was  good,  and  for 
half  an  hour  I  thoroughly  enjoyed 
it.  Then  we  began  to  descend, 
and  suddenly  dashed  across  a  bridge 


A   FISHING   STATION. 


74 


NORWAY 


beneath  which  was  a  foaming  cataract.  I  naturally  reined 
the  pony  in.  But,  to  my  surprise,  the  more  I  pulled,  the 
faster  went  the  pony.  "Whoa!"  I  exclaimed;  "whoa!" 
but  whether  prolonged  or  uttered  with  staccato  emphasis 
that  word  made  no  apparent  difference  in  the  pony  's  gait. 
"Whoa, "was  evidently  not  in  its  vocabulary.  My  hair 


THE   SCENE  OF  AN   ADVENTURE. 


began  to  stand  on  end.  Perceiving  this,  the  demon  of  a 
boy  commenced  to  utter  the  most  unearthly  yells,  and  to 
crack  his  whip  until  he  made  the  pony  actually  seem  to  fly. 

"  Go  slowly,"  I  exclaimed.     Crack,  crack,  went  the  whip. 

"  Stop  that,  you  young  rascal."  Crack,  crack,  crack!  I 
tried  to  seize  the  whip,  but  my  tormentor  held  it  far  behind 
him.  I  sought  to  turn  and  petrify  him  with  a  look,  but  it 
was  like  trying  to  see  a  fly  between  my  shoulder-blades.  I 
saw  that  I  was  only  making  faces  at  the  mountains. 

To  appreciate  my  feelings,  one  should  perceive  the  wind- 
ing road  along  which  I  was  traveling.  It  was  a  splendid 


NORWAY 


75 


specimen  of  en- 
gineering skill, 
but  after  twen- 
ty-seven of 
these  curves,  I 
felt  that  I  was 
getting  cross- 
eyed. Fancy 
me  perched,  as 
it  were,  upon 
a  good-sized 
salad-spoon , 
flying  around 
the  mountain 
side,  with  one 
wheel  in  the  air 
at  every  turn,  at  the 
round  the  Horse-shoe 


A   CHARACTERISTIC   LANDSCAPE. 


ENGINEERING   SKILL. 


rate  of  the  Chicago  Limited  going 
Bend.  I  looked  back  at  my  com- 
panion, whose 
horse,  excited 
by  my  own, 
was  just  behind 
me.  His  face 
was  deathly 
pale.  Anxiety 
was  stamped 
on  every  fea- 
ture. His  lips 
moved  as  if 
entreating  me 
to  slacken  this 
terrific  speed. 
Finally,  he 
faintly  cried: 


NORWAY 


A   VIKING   SHIP. 


"If  you  escape,  .  .  .  give  my 
love  ...  to  my  children,  .  .  . 
William  and  Henry!" 

At  last  I  saw,  some  little 
way  ahead,  a  cart  half-blocking 
the  road.  "Great  heavens!"  I 
thought,  "here  comes  a  collision! 
Well,  it  might  as  well  end  this  way 
as  any  other.  No  more  lectures 
for  me!"  But,  lo!  there  issued 
from  the  small  boy's  lips  the 
sound,  "  Purr-r-r!  "  The  effect 
was  instantaneous.  The  horse  at 
once  relaxed  his  speed,  and  in  a 
moment  came  to  a  full  stop.  For 
"  purring  "  is  to  a  Norwegian  pony 

what  the  Westinghouse  air-brake  is  to  an  express  train.     This 

secret  learned,  we  had  no  further  trouble.     For  "  purr,"  when 

uttered  by  American  lips,  proved  always  as  effectual  as  by 

Norwegian. 

A  few  hours  after  that  eventful  ride,  we  found  ourselves 

upon    the   great 

Hardangerfjord, 

which,  with    its 

branches,   has  a 

length    of   one 

hundred      and 

forty    miles. 

These    ocean 

avenues   possess 

not  merely  nat- 
ural     beauty: 

they    also    have 

historic  interest. 


A    LONELY   POINT. 


NORWAY 


79 


This  part  of  Norway,  for  example,  is  old  Viking  ground. 
Not  far  from  here  lived  Rollo,  conqueror  of  Normandy; 
and  from  these  fjords  a  thousand  years  ago  went  forth 
those  dauntless  warriors  of  the  north,  who  for  two  hun- 


AN  ANCIENT  BOAT  OF  NORWAY. 


dred  years  not  only  ravaged  England,  France,  and  Ireland, 
but  even  crossed  the  Atlantic  to  America  hundreds  of  years 
before  Columbus  sailed  from  Spain. 

In  this  connection,  therefore,  let  me  say  that,  to  me,  the 
most  interesting  object  in  Christiania  was  its  Viking  ship.  This 
most  impressive  relic  of  the  past  was  found  some  fourteen  years 
ago  within  an  ancient  mound  beside  the  sea.  It  had  reposed 
there  for  ten  centuries,  owing  its  preservation  to  the  hard,  blue 
clay  in  which  it  was  entombed.  It  was  made  entirely  of  oak, 
and  was  propelled-  sometimes  by  oars,  sometimes  by  a  sail. 
Within  it  was  discovered  a  well-carved  wooden  chair,  in  which, 
no  doubt,  the  chieftain  sat.  Some  kettles.,  too,  were  here, 


8o 


NORWAY 


•• 


and  plates  and  drinking-cups,  used  by  the  Vikings  when  they 
landed  to  prepare  a  meal.  But,  more  remarkable  still,  this 
boat  contained  some  human  bones.  For  in  those  early  days 
such  boats  were  often  used  as  funeral  barges  for  their  brave 
commanders.  The  vessel,  even  when  buried,  was  always 
headed  toward  the  sea,  so  that  when  called  by  Odin  once 
more  into  life,  the  chief  whose  body  was  thus  sepulchered 
might  be  ready  to  start  at  once  and  sail  again  the  ocean  he 
had  loved  so  well. 

Occasionally,  however,  a  Viking  had  a  grander  form  of 
burial.  Sometimes,  when  an  old  Norwegian  chieftain  felt 
that  he  was  dying,  he  ordered  that  his  body,  when  lifeless, 
should  be  placed  within  his  boat,  which  was  then  filled  with 
light  materials  and  set  on  fire.  The  large  sail  was  then  spread, 
and  the  dead  warrior  drifted  out  before  the  wind,  his  gallant 
vessel  for  a  funeral  pyre,  and  for  his  liturgy  the  chanting  of 
the  waves.  As  for  the  Viking  himself,  he  doubtless  had  faced 
death,  sustained  by  an  unfaltering  belief  which,  had  he  been 
more  cultivated,  might  have  thus  expressed  itself: 

"  If  my  bark  sink,  't  is  to  another  sea." 


NORWAY 


81 


At  the  extremity  of  one  of  the  branches  of  the  Hardanger- 
fjord  is  the  little  town  of  Odde.  This  was  the  only  place  in 
Norway  where  we  had  any  difficulty  in  securing  rooms.  As 
the  boat  neared  the  wharf,  I  heard  a  dozen  ladies  whisper  to 
their  husbands:  "  Now,  dear,  you  stay  and  look  after  the 


A    STREET   IN    BERGEN. 


luggage,  and  I  '11  run  on  and  get  the  rooms."  Accordingly, 
I  used  the  same  words  to  my  friend,  with  the  exception  of  the 
endearing  epithet.  I  was  afraid  that  might  make  him  home- 
sick. Then  I  took  my  position  near  the  gang-plank. 

When  we  arrived,  I  was  the  first  to  step  ashore,  and  I 
started  at  a  brisk  walk  toward  the  hotel.  Behind  me  I  could 
hear  the  rustling  of  many  skirts,  but,  hardening  my  heart  like 
Pharaoh,  I  kept  on.  At  last,  forgetting  drapery  and  dignity, 
the  ladies  passed  me  on  the  run.  This  time  I  gallantly  gave 
way,  and  when,  a  moment  later,  I  reached  the  hotel  office, 
I  could  have  fancied  myself  on  the  floor  of  the  Stock  Ex- 
change, since  every  lady  there  was  fighting  nobly  for  her 
children  and  her  absent  lord. 


82 


NORWAY 


"  I  want  two  beds,"  cried  one. 
"  I  wish  for  five  beds,"  screamed  another. 
"  Give  me  a  room  with  blinds,"  exclaimed  a  third. 
The  female   clerk,   meantime,  having  completely  lost  her 
head,  was  calling  off  numbers  like  an  auctioneer.      Suddenly 

she  turned  to 
me,  who  had  not 
yet  opened  my 
mouth,  and  al- 
most paralyzed 
me  with  these 
words : 

"  Number  20 
will  do  for  you, 
three  beds  and 
one  cradle! 

When  I  re- 
covered from  my 
swoon,  I  found 
that  my  friend 
had  come  u  p 
quietly  after  the  battle,  and  had  secured  two  single  rooms. 

Saying  farewell  to  Odde,  a  day's  delightful  sail  between 
majestic  mountains  brought  us  to  one  of  Norway's  most 
important  cities —  Bergen.  Although  we  lingered  here  three 
days,  we  had  the  wonderful  experience  of  continual  sunshine. 
I  rightly  call  it  wonderful ;  for  Bergen  is  the  rainiest  city  in  the 
world  and  is  sarcastically  called  "The  fatherland  of  drizzle." 
The  people  in  Christiania  claim  that  in  Bergen  when  a  horse 
sees  a  man  without  an  umbrella,  he  shies !  It  is  also  said  that 
a  sea-captain,  who  was  born  in  Bergen,  and  all  his  life  had 
sailed  between  his  native  city  and  the  outer  world,  came  one 
day  into  its  harbor  when  by  chance  the  sun  was  shining. 
At  once  he  put  about  and  set  forth  to  sea  again,  believing  that 


THE    BERGEN    FISH    MARKET. 


NORWAY 


he  had  made  a  mistake  in  his  port.  As  we  approached  the 
pier  at  Bergen,  I  saw  what,  in  the  distance,  appeared  to  be 
a  mob.  It  proved,  however,  to  be  the  usual  crowd  which 
gathers  round  the  Bergen  Fish  Market. 

This  is  not,  after  all,  so  strange  if  we  reflect  that  fish  is  the 
great  commodity  of  Bergen,  and  that  this  city  is  the  chief 
distributing  station  for  Norwegian  fish  to  the  entire  world. 
Several  centuries  ago,  a  company  of  German  merchants,  who 
formed  the  famous  Hanseatic  League,  established  themselves 
here  and  held  for  years  within  their  hands  the  monopoly  of 
all  the  fishing  trade  of  Norway,  compelling  even  the  Norwe- 
gian fishermen  to  send  their  catch  of  fish  to  Bergen  for  re- 
shipment  to  other  ports  of  Europe.  It  is  true  the  league 
exists  no  longer, 
but  its  influence 
still  survives, 
and  nothing  can 
divert  the  trade 
from  following 
in  its  ancient 
channel.  Over 
the  hills  that  rise 
above  the  city 
a  splendid  drive- 
way has  been 
made.  A  Bergen 
resident  spoke  of 
it  to  me  as  "  The 
Drink  Road." 

"  What  is  the  meaning  of  so  strange  a  title?  "  I  inquired. 

"It  is  so  called,"  he  said,  "because  it  is  constructed 
wholly  out  of  the  profits  derived  from  the  sale  of  ardent 
spirits."  Observing  my  astonishment,  he  added:  "  Do  you 
not  understand  our  famous  liquor  law  in  Bergen?  " 


MONSTERS   OF  THE    DEEP. 


86 


NORWAY 


I     confessed 
my  ignorance. 

"Then  let 
me  explain  it 
to  you,"  he  ex- 
claimed." "  Per- 
haps I  can  best 
do  this,"  he 
added,  "by 
pointing  out  to 
you  that  melan- 
BERGEN'S  "  DRINK  ROAD."  choly  individual 

standing  by  the  gang-plank.  He  used  to  be  a  liquor-seller 
here,  but  he  has  lost  his  '  spirits,'  for  our  municipal  govern- 
ment now  has  the  sale  of  liquors  entirely  in  its  own  hands. 
It  first  decides  how  many  licenses  are  needed,  and  then, 
instead  of  giving  them  to  private  individuals,  it  grants  them 
only  to  a  responsible  stock  company.  The  books  of  this 
company  must  be  at  all  times  open  to  inspection,  and  all 
its  rules  are  strictly  under  government  control.  Moreover, 
the  company  is  not  allowed  to  make  more  than  five  per  cent, 
on  its  invested 
capital.  All 
profits  over  that 
amount  are 
given  to  public 
improvements, 
roads,  parks, 
schools,  or  hos- 
pitals." 

I  asked  if 
the  law  gave 
general  satisfac- 
tion. 


NORWAY 


"We  are  delighted  with  it,"  was  the  answer.  "It  is 
now  thirteen  years  since  it  was  started,  and  all  the  prominent 
towns  in  Norway,  except  three,  have  followed  our  example. 
The  liquors,  in  the  first  place,  are  all  carefully  selected. 
Secondly,  the  bars  are  not  attractive  gin-palaces,  but  plain 
rooms,  with  no  seats  for  customers.  No  loitering  on  the 
premises  is  allowed.  Only  a  small  amount  is  sold  at  any  one 
time.  Children  are  not  allowed  to  serve  as  messengers. 
Even  the  bar- 
tenders are  ap- 
pointed by  the 
government,  and 
wear  a  uniform 
and  a  number, 
by  which  they 
can  be  easily 
identified  in  case 
of  complaint  ; 
and  as  a  practi- 
cal result,"  he 
added,  "by  tak- 
ing the  liquor 
traffic  out  of 
the  hands  of 
irresponsible 

agents  the  annual  amount  of  ardent  spirits  sold  has  been 
reduced  from  twelve  and  a  half  to  five  and  a  half  million 
quarts;  and  yet  our  Bergen  company  has  earned  each  year 
a  net  profit  of  one  hundred  and  twenty-five  per  cent,  one 
hundred  and  twenty  of  which  is,  as  I  have  said,  applied  to 
public  charities!  " 

But  to  me  the  most  interesting  sight  in  Bergen  was  the 
grave  of  the  Norwegian  violinist,  Ole  Bull.  His  last  appear- 
ance in  America  was  in  1879  —  too  long  ago  perhaps  for  many 


A   BUSY    DAY   IN    BEKGEN. 


88 


NORWAY 


to  recollect  him  —  for,  alas!  even  those  who  entertain  the 
public  best  are  soon  forgotten.  But  some  of  my  readers 
no  doubt  recall  that  Paganini  of  the  North,  tall  and  erect, 
with  large  blue  eyes  and  flaxen  hair  —  the  personification 
of  a  valiant  Norseman,  whose  fire  and  magnetism  in  this  nine- 
teenth century  displayed  themselves  in  music  rather  than  in 
maritime  adventure.  As  his  old  Viking  ancestors  had  no  doubt 
wielded  sword  and  battle-ax,  so  his  bow  was  of  such  unusual 

length  that  no 
one  of  inferior 
strength  and 
stature  could 
have  used  it  ad- 
vantageously. 

From  this 
musician's 
grave  one  looks 
off  over  the 
lovely  bay  of 
Bergen.  This 
peaceful  view, 
which  he  so 
loved,  produced 
upon  my  mind, 
in  the  soft 
evening  light,  the  same  effect  as  did  the  music  of  that  skillful 
hand  which  now  reposed  beneath  the  flowers.  To  me  his 
playing  was  enchanting,  and  unlike  that  of  any  other  violinist 
I  have  ever  heard.  There  was  a  quality  in  the  tones  that  he 
would  call  forth  from  his  violin,  which  seemed  as  weird  and 
fascinating  as  the  poetry  of  the  sagas,  and  as  mysterious  as 
the  light  which  lingered  on  his  mountains  and  fjords.  What 
wonder  that  his  death  in  1880  was  deplored  in  Norway  as  a 
national  calamity? 


THE  GRAVE   OF    OLE   BULL. 


NORWAY 


89 


Taking  our  leave  reluctantly  of 
Bergen,  we  entered  on  what  proved 
to  be  one  of  the  most  delightful 
features  of  our  tour  in  Norway,  a 
sail  of  twenty-four  hours  along  the 
coast  to  the  town  of  Molde.  How 
can  I  adequately  describe  that 
most  unique  and  memorable 
journey?  Our  entire  course  lay 
through  a  labyrinth  of  islands, 
beyond  which,  every  now  and 
then,  we  gained  a  glimpse  of  the 
Atlantic  rolling  away  toward  the  OLE  BULI" 

horizon.  The  proximity  and  number  of  these  islands  aston- 
ished me.  For,  hour  after  hour,  they  would  come  into 
sight,  wheel  by  us  slowly,  and  then  disappear,  to  be  succeeded 
by  their  counterparts.  We  went  down  to  dinner  or  to  our 
staterooms,  yet  when  we  came  on  deck  again,  islands 
still  surrounded  us.  We  saw  them  glittering  in  the  sunset 
ere  we  went  to  sleep,  and  in  the  morning  we  were  once  more 
environed  by  them.  Sometimes  I  could  have  fancied  that 
they  were  sailing  with  us,  like  a  vast  convoy  of  protecting 
gunboats,  moving  when  we  moved,  halting  when  we  halted, 
patient  and  motionless  till  we  resumed  our  voyage. 

Meantime,  just  opposite  these  islands,  is  the  coast, —  a 
grand  succession  of  bold  headlands  and  dark,  gloomy  moun- 
tains, beyond  which  always  are  still  higher  summits  capped 


90  NORWAY 

with  snow.  At  frequent  intervals  some  beautiful  fjord  leads 
inward,  like  the  entrance  to  a  citadel ;  and  here  and  there, 
within  a  sheltered  nook,  we  see  some  fishing  hamlet  crouch- 
ing on  the  sand.  This  is  surely  the  perfection  of  ocean 
travel.  For,  though  this  mountain-bordered  channel  is  hun- 
dreds of  miles  in  length,  the  sea  within  it  is  as  smooth  as  a 
canal.  Once  only  throughout  the  day  was  the  great  swell 

of   the    Atlantic 

felt,  when  for  a 
little  space  the 
island  break- 
water was  gone. 
Our  sail  along 
the  coast  had, 
late  at  night,  a 
most  appro- 
priate ending  in 
our  arrival  at  Molde.  There  are  few  places  in  the  world 
more  beautiful.  It  lies  upon  the  bank  of  a  fjord,  on  the 
opposite  side  of  which  is  an  array  of  snowy  mountains  forty 
miles  in  length.  Molde  is  sometimes  called  the  "  Inter- 
laken  of  Norway,"  but  that  does  not  by  any  means  describe 
it.  For  here  there  is  no  single  mountain,  like  the  Jungfrau, 
to  compel  our  homage,  but  rather  a  long  series  of  majestic 
peaks,  resembling  a  line  of  icebergs  drifting  in  crystal  splendor 
from  the  polar  sea. 

Filled  with  enthusiasm  over  this  splendid  spectacle,  we 
left  the  steamer,  and  soon  found  ourselves  within  a  com- 
fortable hotel.  It  was  the  hour  of  midnight,  but,  far  from 
being  dark,  the  eastern  sky  was  even  then  brightening  with 
the  coming  dawn.  A  party  of  excursionists  was  just  return- 
ing from  a  mountain  climb.  Some  passengers  were  embarking 
on  the  steamer  we  had  left.  Supper  or  breakfast  (I  know  not 
which  to  call  it)  was  awaiting  us.  Under  such  circumstances 


A   WONDERFUL   PANORAMA. 


NORWAY  91 

it  seemed  ridiculous  to  go  to  bed.  Accordingly,  we  laughed 
and  chatted  on  the  balcony,  until  a  wretched  man  thrust  out 
his  head  from  an  adjoining  window,  and  remarked : 

"  My  friends,  I  am  glad  to  see  you  happy,  but  I  have  just 
returned  from  the  North  Cape.  I  have  n't  slept  for  eight 
nights.  It  seems  quite  dark  here  by  comparison,  and  I  was 
hopeful  of  a  good  night's  rest.  Would  you  just  as  lief  post- 
pone your  fun  until  you  get  inside  the  Arctic  circle?" 

This  pathetic  appeal  could  not  be  resisted,  and  asking  his 
forgiveness,  we  retired. 

Taking  leave  of  Molde  one  pleasant  afternoon,  we  sailed 
across  its  beautiful  fjord  to  explore  the  snow-capped  moun- 
tains opposite.  It  was  upon  this  voyage  that  I  was  taught 
the  bitter  lesson  never  to  trust  my  baggage  to  a  Norwegian, 
merely  because  he  claims  to  be  able  to  speak  English.  Upon 
the  deck  of  our  little  steamer  stood  that  day  a  man,  upon 
whose  hatband  I  read  the  legend  that  he  was  the  proprietor 
of  a  hotel  at  Veblungsnas,  where  we  proposed  to  spend  the 
night.  Approaching  him,  therefore,  I  inquired: 

"  Can  you  speak  English?  " 

He  smiled  upon  me  sweetly,  and  replied,  "  O,  yes." 

Innocent  of  the  awful  fact  that  this  was  the  whole  extent 
of  his  vocabulary,  I  continued : 

"  When  we  arrive,  will  you  bring  my  valise  ashore,  while 
I  go  at  once  to  the  hotel  to  secure  rooms?  " 

"O,  yes." 

Ten  minutes  later  we  reached  our  landing  pier.      I  left  the 


92 


NORWAY 


boat,  as  I  had  said,  and  hurried  on  to  the  hotel.     I  presently 
beheld  the  old  proprietor  coming  from  the  wharf,  but  without 

my  satchel. 

"  What  does 
this     mean?  "    I 
cried;  "  did    you 
not    bring    my 
valise   off   the 
steamer? " 
"  O,  yes." 
''Where  is  it, 
then?     Is   it  not 
on  there  still? " 
"  O,  yes." 
"Mercy  on 


VIEW    FROM    MOLDE. 


me!  Is  not  that 
the  steamer  going  off  with  my  valise  on  board?" 

"  O,  yes!  " 

"  Well,  are  you  not  a  monumental  idiot,  then?" 

"O,  yes!  " 

It  took  me  three  days  to  recover  that  valise;  and  the  im- 
portant lesson  of  "  O,  yes,"  was  effectually  learned. 

Early  next  morning  we  took  leave  of  Veblungsnas,  and 
drove  directly  towards  the  Romsdal,  one  of  the  finest  valleys 
in  all  Norway.  Before  us,  like  a  mighty  sentinel,  the  im- 
posing Romsdalhorn  rose,  dark  with  somber  shadows,  to  an 
altitude  of  five  thousand  and  ninety  feet.  The  peak  itself, 
five  hundred  feet  in  height,  is  said  to  be  almost  as  dan- 
gerous to  ascend  as  the  appalling  Matterhorn,  not  only 
on  account  of  its  perpendicular  sides,  but  also  from  the 
crumbling  nature  of  the  rock,  which  renders  it  impossible  to 
fasten  iron  bars  in  its  surface. 

Some  years  ago,  an  English  tourist,  after  a  number  of  un- 
successful efforts,  finally  reached  the  summit  of  this  moun- 


NORWAY 


93 


tain.  He  was,  of  course,  exultant.  The  inhabitants  of  the 
valley  had  told  him  that  the  conquest  of  the  Romsdalhorn 
was  hopeless,  and  no  tradition  existed  among  them  that  its 
ascent  had  ever  been  made.  Nevertheless,  when  the  success- 
ful climber  finally  stood  upon  the  mountain's  crest,  he  found 
to  his  astonishment  and  regret  that  he  was  not  the  first 
man  who  had  gained  this  victory.  A  mound  of  stones, 
heaped  up  there  as  a  monument,  proved  beyond  doubt  that 
at  some  unknown  epoch  some  one  had  been  there  before  him. 
Driving  around  the  base  of  this  majestic  mountain,  we 
found  ourselves  within  a  narrow  gorge  shut  in  by  savage 
cliffs,  with  barely  space  enough  between  them  for  the  carriage- 
road  and  a  wild  torrent  rushing  toward  the  sea.  ..One  wall  of 
this  ravine  is  singu-  ^^•••••^^•^  larly  weird  and 

awe  -  inspir-      ^^^*  ^^^^         ing.    A  mul- 

titude of      ^r  ^^.     crags  and 


THE    ROMSDALHORN, 


94 


NORWAY 


pinnacles,  splintered  and  shattered  by  the  lightning's  bolts, 
stand  out  in  sharp  relief  against  the  sky,  as  if  some  monsters, 
hidden  on  the  other  side,  were  raising  o'er  the  brink  of  these 
stupendous  precipices  their  outstretched  hands  and  tapering 
fingers  in  warning  or  in  supplication.  These  strange,  fantastic 
forms  are  in  the  evening  light  so  ghostly  and  uncanny,  that  they 
appear  to  the  Norwegian  peasants  like  demons  dancing  glee- 
fully upon  the 
mountain  tops. 
Hence  the  pin- 
nacles are  called 
the  "Witches' 
Peaks. ' ' 

It  was  while 
riding  through 
this  gorge  that 
I  heard  a  tour- 
ist complaining 
that  Norway 
had  no  ruins. 
In  one  sense 
this  is  true,  for, 
owing  to  the  fact 
that  the  feudal  system  never  existed  here,  castles  and  strong- 
holds are  nowhere  to  be  found.  But  Norway  surely  can  dis- 
pense with  any  crumbling  works  of  man.  Amidst  the  ruins 
of  her  everlasting  mountains  and  stupendous  fjords,  grooved 
by  the  glaciers  when  the  earth  was  young,  all  remnants 
of  man's  handiwork  would  seem  like  ant-hills  made  but  an 
hour  ago. 

Toward  evening,  at  the  head  of  the  Romsdal  Valley,  we 
reached  the  station  of  Stuflaaten,  where  we  were  to  sleep. 
Our  spirits  sank  as  we  approached  it.  Nothing,  apparently, 
could  be  less  inviting.  But  here,  as  in  so  many  other  instances, 


THE  WITCHES'  PEAKS. 


NORWAY 


95 


STUFLAATEN. 


we     found     the 

accommodations 

excellent.      It   is 

true,     the     beds 

possessed     the 

usual  Norwegian 

fault — an  insuffi- 
cient     length. 

Tall     travelers, 

who    object    to 

having     their 

limbs    closed 

under    them     at 

night,  like    the  blades   of  a   jack-knife,  frequently   sleep   on 

the  floor  in  Norway. 

"  I  cannot  lie  in  one  of  these  beds,"  exclaimed  my  friend ; 

which,  for  a  lawyer,  seemed  to  me  a  remarkable  admission ! 
Never  shall  I  forget  the  dining-room  at  Stuflaaten.      Here 

we  were  first  attracted  by  the  fireplace.      It   was   a  chimney 

built  out  from  the  corner,  with  space  behind  for  a  warm  cup- 
board. The 
opening  for  fuel 
was  so  narrow 
that  sticks  were 
placed  upright 
upon  the  hearth. 
Beside  this  were 
two  rocking- 
chairs  (almost 
unheard  of  lux- 
uries in  any  part 
of  Europe),  and 
sinking  into 
these,  we  thought 


A   NEW    ENGLAND   SOUVENIR. 


96 


NORWAY 


of  home.     The  influence  of  that  American  article  of  furniture 
was,  I  fear,  depressing,  for  soon  my  friend  remarked  : 

"How  far  we  are  from  dear  New  England!  If  I  could 
only  see  one  object  here  which  really  came  from  there,  how 
happy  I  should  be!  " 

"  Look  at  that  clock  upon  the  wall,"  I  responded;  "  that 
has  a  familiar  look.  Perhaps  that  came  from  '  dear  New 
England  !  ' 

"Nonsense,"  he  answered;   "how  could  anything  made 

-,  in  New  England 
find  its  way  here 
almost  within  the 
Arctic  circle?  " 

"Well,"  I  ex- 
claimed, "where 
is  the  land  that 


Yankee  inven- 
tions have  not 
entered?  Let  us 
put  it  to  the 
test."  Accord- 
ingly,  stepping  to  the  clock,  I  opened  it  and  read  these  words: 
"  Made  by  Jerome  &  Co.,  New  Haven,  Conn." 

Returning  once  more  through  the  Romsdal,  Veblungsnas, 
and  Molde,  we  sailed  again,  for  twelve  hours,  along  the  Norway 
coast  to  reach  the  city  of  Trondhjem.  Although  less  beauti- 
fully situated  than  Bergen,  Molde,  or  Christiania,  in  point  of 
historic  interest,  Trondhjem  is  superior  to  them  all.  For  here 
lived  the  old  Norwegian  kings,  and  the  town  can  boast  of  a  con- 
tinuous existence  for  a  thousand  years.  It  also  enjoys  the  proud 
distinction  of  having  the  most  northern  railway  station  in  the 
world,  for  from  this  city,  which  is  in  the  latitude  of  Iceland, 
a  railroad  now  extends  three  hundred  and  fifty  miles  south- 
ward to  Christiania. 


NORWAY 


97 


Upon  this  road  are  run  some 
cars  which  are  facetiously  called 
"sleepers";  but  they  are  such  as 
Mr.  George  M.  Pullman  would  see  only  in 
an  acute  attack  of  nightmare.  The  road 
being  a  narrow-gauge  one,  the  car  is  not  much  wider  than  an 
omnibus.  The  berth  (if  the  name  can  be  applied  to  such  a 
coffin-like  contrivance)  is  formed  by  pulling  narrow  cushion- 
seats  together.  On  these  is  placed  one  pillow,  but  no  blanket 
and  no  mattress, — simply  a  pillow, — nothing  more!  From  the 
feeling,  I  should  say  that  my  pillow  consisted  of  a  small  boulder 
covered  with  cotton.  But  what,  think  you,  is  the  upper  berth? 
It  is  a  hammock,  swung  on  hooks,  and  sagging  down  to  within 
a  foot  of  the  lower  couch.  Now,  it  requires  some  skill  to  get 
into  a  hammock  anywhere;  but  to  climb  into  one  that  is  hung 
four  feet  above  the  floor  of  a  moving  railroad  car,  calls  for  the 


98 


NORWAY 


A   NORWEGIAN   HARBOR. 


agility  of  an  acrobat.  After  my  experience  that  night,  I  feel 
perfectly  qualified  to  perform  on  the  trapeze,  for  since  I  weighed 
but  one  hundred  and  forty  pounds,  while  my  friend  tipped  the 

scales  at  two 
hundred  and 
fifty,  I  thought 
it  was  safer  for 
me  to  occupy 
the  upper  story. 
Another  diffi- 
culty met  with 
in  that  memora- 
ble journey  was 
to  keep  covered 
up.  There  was 
no  heat  in  the  car.  At  every  respiration,  we  could  see  our 
breath.  This  was,  however,  a  consolation,  since  it  assured 
us  that  we  were  still  alive.  Wraps  of  all  kinds  were  needed, 
but  the  space  was  limited.  There  was,  for  example,  in  my 
hammock,  room  for  myself  alone;  or  without  me,  for  my 
traveling-rug,  overcoat,  and  pillow.  But  when  we  were 
all  in  together,  the  hammock  was  continually  overflowing. 
Accordingly,  every  fifteen  minutes  during  that  awful  night, 
my  friend  would  start  up  in  abject  terror,  dreaming  that  he 
was  being  buried  beneath  a  Norway  avalanche. 

I  never  think  of  Trondhjem  without  recalling,  also,  an 
experience  in  a  Norwegian  barber-shop.  I  knew  that  it  was 
tempting  Providence  to  enter  it,  for  shaving  in  Norway  js 
still  a  kind  of  surgical  operation.  But  for  some  time  a  cold- 
ness had  existed  between  my  razors  and  myself.  The  edge 
of  our  friendship  had  become  dulled.  Accordingly,  I  made 
the  venture.  Before  me,  as  I  entered,  stood  a  man  with  a 
head  of  hair  like  Rubenstein's,  and  a  mouth  like  a  miniature 
fjord. 


NORWAY 


101 


"  Do  you  speak  English?  "  I  began. 

''Nay." 

"  Sprechen  sie  Deutsch?  " 

"Nay." 

"  Parlez-vous  Francois?" 

"Nay." 

"  Parlate  Italiano?" 

"Nay." 

"Well,  one  thing  is  sure,  then,"  I  said;  "  you  will  not  talk 
me  to  death,  anyway!  " 

Having  made  the  most  graceful  gestures  of  which  I  was 
capable  to  indicate  what  I  wanted,  I  settled  myself  in  a  hard 
chair  and  laid  my  head  against  a  rest  resembling  the  vise  fur- 
nished by  a  photographer  when  he  asks  you  "  to  look  pleas- 
ant." The  preliminaries  being  over,  the  Norwegian  Figaro 
took  his  razor  and  made  one 
awful  never  -  to  -  be  -  forgotten 
swoop  at  my  cheek  as  if  he 
were  mowing  grain  with  a 
scythe!  I  gave  a  roar  like 
a  Norwegian  waterfall  and 
bounded  from  the  chair  in 
agony!  When  I  had  fully 
wiped  away  my  blood  and 
tears,  I  asked  him  faintly: 

"  Have  you  any  ether?  " 

"Nay." 

"  Any  laughing-gas?  " 

"Nay." 

"  Any  cocaine?  " 


"Well,  then,"  I  exclaimed,  "will  you  please  go  over 
there  and  '  nay  '  by  yourself  while  I  finish  this  operation  with 
my  own  hands?  " 


IO2 


NORWAY 


He  seemed  to  understand  me,  and  retreated  to  a  corner. 
When  all  was  over,  he  pointed  to  a  bowl  at  which  I  saw 
my  friend  gazing  with  that  peculiarly  sad  expression  which  he 
invariably  assumed  when  thinking  of  his  family.  I  soon  dis- 
covered the  cause,  for  from  the  centre  of  this  wash-bowl  rose 
a  little  fountain  about  a  foot  in  height,  which  seemed  to 
him  a  facsimile  of  the  one  on  Boston  Common.  I  compre- 


ENTRANCE  TO   A    FJORD. 


hended  that  I  was  to  wash  in  this  fountain;  but  how  to  do 
it  was  a  mystery.  At  last  I  cautiously  thrust  one  side  of  my 
face  into  it,  and  instantly  the  water  shot  up  over  my  ear  and 
fell  upon  the  other  side.  I  turned  my  face,  and  the  ascending 
current  carromed  on  my  nose,  ran  down  my  neck,  and  made 
a  change  of  toilet  absolutely  necessary.  When,  therefore, 
my  friend  had  called  a  cab  to  take  me  home,  I  asked  the 
barber  what  I  should  pay  him.  By  gestures  he  expressed  to 
me  the  sum  equivalent  to  three  cents. 

"What,"  I  exclaimed,  "nothing  extra  for  the  court- 
plaster?  " 

"  Nay." 

"  And  nothing  for  the  privilege  of  shaving  myself?  " 

"  Nay." 

"  And  you  don't  charge  for  the  fountain,  either?  " 


NORWAY 


103 


"  Nay." 

"Well,"  I  exclaimed  as  I  rode  away,  "  I  can  truly  say 
that  never  before  have  I  received  so  much  for  my  money." 

This  city  of  the  north  has  one  extremely  interesting 
building — its  cathedral.  As  a  rule,  Scandinavian  churches  are 
not  worth  a  visit;  but  this  is  a  notable  exception.  More 
than  three  hundred  years  before  Columbus  landed  on  San 
Salvador  this  building  held  a  proud  position.  Its  finest  carv- 
ing dates  from  the  eleventh  century.  At  one  time  pilgrims 
came  here  from  all  northern  Europe,  and  laid  their  gold  and 
jewels  on  its  shrines.  But  at  the  period  of  the  Reformation  all 
this  was  changed.  Iconoclasts  defaced  its  carving,  cast  down 
its  statues,  sacked  the  church,  and  packed  its  treasures  in  a 
ship,  which,  as  if  cursed  by  an  offended  Deity,  foundered 
at  sea. 

On  entering  the  ancient  edifice,  we  were  delighted  with  its 
delicate  stone-tracing.  The  material  is  a  bluish  slate,  which 
gives  to  the  whole  church  a  softness  and  a  beauty  difficult  to 


104 


NORWAY 


equal,  and  blends  most  admirably  with  its  columns  of  white 
marble.  A  part  of  the  cathedral  was,  however,  closed  to  us, 
for  all  the  ruin  once  wrought  here  is  being  carefully  effaced 
by  systematic  restoration.  The  government  contributes  for 


this  purpose  a  certain 
sum  every  year,  and  pri- 
vate individuals  help  on 
the  work  from  genuine 
love  of  art,  as  well  as  from 
patriotic  motives.  The 
old  designs  are  being  followed, 
and  hence,  in  time,  this  old 
cathedral  will  in  every  feature  come  to  be  a  reproduction  of 
the  original  structure. 

A  few  days  after  reaching  Trondhjem,  we  found  ourselves 
embarking  for  another  ocean  journey.  This  time  our  desti- 
nation was  the  northern  limit  of  the  continent.  For  a  Nor- 
wegian tour  naturally  divides  itself  into  three  parts.  The  first 
consists  of  driving  through  the  mountainous  interior;  the 


NORWAY 


105 


AN    EXCURSION    STEAMER. 


second  is  the  ex- 
ploration of  its 
noble  fjords  ; 
the  third  is  the 
voyage  from 
Trondhjem  to 
the  North  Cape. 
This  voyage, 
in  fast  excursion 
steamers,  is  now 
made  in  about  four  days,  an  equal  number  being  occupied  in 
returning.  "  Eight  days?  "  the  reader  will  perhaps  exclaim; 
"  why,  that  is  longer  than  a  voyage  across  the  Atlantic."  In 
actual  duration,  yes;  but  otherwise  the  two  excursions  are 
entirely  different.  For  almost  all  the  way  you  follow  so 
closely  the  fringe  of  islands  that  there  is  little  danger  of 
rough  weather,  while  the  mainland  is  constantly  in  sight. 

Some  twenty-four  hours  after  leaving  Trondhjem,  our 
steamer  halted  at  an  island,  up  whose  precipitous  side  we 
climbed  five  hundred  feet  to  view  a  natural  tunnel  perfo- 
rating an  entire  mountain.  Through  this  we  gained  a  charm- 
ing telescopic  vista  of  the  ocean  and  its  island  belt.  The  tun- 
nel is  six  hundred  feet  in  length,  and  in  some  places  two  hun- 
dred feet  in  height.  So  smooth  and  perpendicular  are  its 
walls,  that  it  appears  almost  incredible  that  human  agency 

has  not  assisted 
in  this  strange 
formation.  But 
scientists  say 
that  it  was 
accomplished 
entirely  by  the 
waves,  when  all 
this  rock-bound 


ONE   OF  THE   LOFFODENS. 


io6 


NORWAY 


coast  was  covered  by  the  sea.  Leaving  this  curious  freak  of 
nature,  another  memorable  feature  of  our  northern  voyage 
soon  greeted  us, — the  Loffoden  Islands.  These  form  a 
broken  chain  one  hundred  and  thirty  miles  in  length.  The 
scenery  in  their  vicinity  is  perhaps  the  finest  on  the  Norway 
coast,  and  as  we  watched  it  with  delight,  the  captain  told  us 
of  his  voyages  here  in  winter,  and  I  now  learned,  to  my  aston- 
ishment that  freight-steamers  make  their  regular  trips,  all 


FISHING   ON  THE   COAST. 


winter  long,  round  the  North  Cape  to  Vadso,  on  the  Arctic 
coast.  They  encounter  fearful  storms  at  times,  but  rarely  any 
icebergs.  We  have,  it  seems,  a  monopoly  of  these  floating 
monsters  on  our  side  of  the  Atlantic,  borne  west  and  south 
by  the  current  off  the  coast  of  Greenland. 

Of  course,  these  wintry  voyages  are  performed  in  dark- 
ness, for  Night  then  reigns  here  with  as  much  supremacy  as 
Day  in  summer.  The  lights  on  the  steamers  are,  therefore, 
kept  constantly  burning.  Yet,  strange  to  say,  this  is  the 
period  of  greatest  activity  among  these  islands.  Winter  is  the 
Norwegian  fisherman's  harvest-time.  The  only  light  neces- 


SCENE    FROM    BROTHANSDALEN. 


NORWAY 


109 


TROMSO. 


sary  to  carry  on 
the  work  is  that 
of  the  Aurora 
Borealis  and  the 
brilliant  stars. 
From  twenty  to 
twenty-five  mil- 
lions of  cod  are 
captured  here 
each  winter, 
and  twenty-five 
thousand  people 
are  employed  in 
the  trade. 

Soon  after  leaving  the  Loffodens  we  arrived  at  Tromso, 
the  city  of  the  Lapps.  It  had  the  appearance  of  a  pretty- 
village  as  we  viewed  it  from  a  distance ;  but  soon  the  sense 
of  sight  was  wholly  lost  in  the  prominence  given  to  an- 
other of  our  senses.  The  carcass  of  a  whale  was  floating  in 
the  harbor.  It  had  been  speared  and  towed  in  hither  to  be 
cut  in  pieces.  The  blubber  was  being 
boiled  in  kettles  on  the  shore.  The 
impression  which  this  made  .on  my 
olfactory  nerves  is  something  for  which 
language  is  inadequate.  The  odor  was 
as  colossal  as  the  fish  itself.  I  never 
sympathized  sufficiently  with  Jonah  till 
I  went  to  Tromso ! 

Soon  after  landing  here,  a  walk  of 
an  hour  brought  us  to  a  settlement  of 
Lapps,  consisting  of  some  very  primi- 
tive tents.  My  first  impression  of  these 
people  was,  and  still  is,  that  any  one  of 
them  could  have  effectually  concealed 


LAPLANDERS. 


IIO 


NORWAY 


REINDEER 
AND   SLEDGE. 


his  identity  by 
taking  a  bath. 
They  all  have 

dirty,  wizened  faces,  high  cheekbones,  flat  noses,  and  mouths 
that  yawn  like  caverns.  Their  beards  are  so  peculiarly  tufted 
that  they  look  like  worn-out  Astrachan  fur.  I  could  almost 
suppose  that  in  rigorous  winters  the  reindeer,  while  their  mas- 
ters slept,  had  nibbled  at  their  cheeks.  The  men  are  about 

five  feet  high,  the  women  four; 
but  they  are  tough  and  hardy, 
like  most  dwarfs.  Dickens 
could  have  found  among  them 
countless  models  for  his  hid- 
eous Quilp. 

Advancing  to  one  of  their 
huts,  we  peered  into  the  in- 
terior. Upon  the  ground  was 
smoldering  a  small  fire,  part 
of  the  smoke  from  which  es- 
caped through  an  opening  in 
the  roof.  The  inmates  scarcely 
noticed  us,  until  my  artist  pro- 


A   LITTLE   LAPP. 


NORWAY 


in 


duced  his  camera.  Then  there  was  instantly  a  general  stampede. 
One  woman  seized  her  baby  and  rushed  forth,  as  if  a  demon 
had  molested  her.  The  cause  of  this  confusion,  however,  was 
not  fear,  nor  even  modesty,  but  avarice,  pure  and  simple. 
They  understood  perfectly  what  the  camera  was,  and  wanted 
a  good  price  for  being  photographed.  Three  shillings  was 


LIFE   IN   LAPLAND. 


at  first  demanded  for  a  picture,  but  finally  we   compromised 
by  giving  half  that  sum. 

Among  these  Laplanders,  the  clothing  of  both  men  and 
women  is  made  of  reindeer  skin,  worn  with  the  hardened  pelt 
outside.  These  garments  last  indefinitely,  and  are  sometimes 
bequeathed  from  one  generation  to  another.  The  Lapp  com- 
plexion looks  like  leather.  Even  the  babies  have  a  shriveled 
look,  resembling  that  of  monkeys.  This  is  not  strange,  how- 
ever, for  both  men  and  women  are  great  consumers  of 
tobacco.  Their  huts  are  always  full  of  smoke,  till  finally  the 
inmates  become  smoke-dried  within  and  without.  This,  in 
turn,  produces  thirst.  Hence  we  were  not  surprised  to  learn 
that  they  are  inordinately  fond  of  ardent  spirits.  .  In  fact, 


112 


NORWAY 


when  a  Norwegian  wishes  to  remonstrate  with  a  friend  who  is 
inclined  to  drink  to  excess,  he  will  often  say  to  him,  "  Don't 
make  a  Lapp  of  yourself!  " 

Bidding  farewell  to  Tromso  and  the  Laplanders,  the  next 
day  brought  us  to  the  most  northern  town  in  the  world  - 
Hammerfest.  It  was  a  great  surprise  to  me  to  see,  in  such 
proximity  to  the  North  Pole,  a  town  of  about  three  thousand 
inhabitants,  with  schools,  a  church,  a  telegraph  station,  and  a 
weekly  newspaper!  The  snow-streaked  mountains  in  the  dis- 
tance gave  me  the  only  hint  of  winter  that  I  had ;  and  I  could 
hardly  realize  that  I  was  here  two  hundred  miles  farther  north 
than  Bering's  Strait,  and  in  about  the  same  latitude  in  which, 
on  our  side  of  the  Atlantic,  the  gallant  Sir  John  Franklin 
perished  in  the  ice.  The  cause  of  this,  however,  is  not  diffi- 
cult to  trace. 

The  influence  of  the  Gulf  Stream  is  felt  powerfully 
even  here.  For  here  it  is  that  the  great  ocean  current  prac- 
tically dies,  bequeathing  to  these  fishermen  of  Hammerfest,  for 


HAMMERFEST. 


NORWAY 


THE  GULF  STREAM'S  TERMINUS. 


their  firewood,  the  treasures  it  has  so  long  carried  on  its  bosom, 
such  as  the  trunks  of   palm-trees,  and  the  vegetation  of  the 

tropics.  It  is  an 
extraordinary 
fact  that  while 
the  harbor  of 
Christiania,  one 
thousand  miles 
farther  south, 
is  frozen  over 
three  months 
every  winter, 
this  bay  of  Hammerfest,  only  sixty  miles  from  the  North 
Cape,  is  never  closed  on  account  of  ice. 

An  interesting  object  in  Hammerfest  is  the  meridian  shaft, 
which  marks  the  number  of  degrees  between  this  town  and 
the  mouth  of  the  Danube,  on  the  Black  Sea.  The  mention 
made  upon  this  column  of  that 
other  terminus  of  measure- 
ment, so  far  distant  in  the 
South  of  Europe,  reminded  us 
by  contrast  of  one  more  ad- 
vantage which  this  high  lati- 
tude possesses  —  the  greater 
rapidity  of  its  vegetation. 
When  the  sun  once  appears 
within  this  polar  region,  it 
comes  to  stay.  Nature  im- 
mediately makes  amends  for 
her  long  seclusion.  For  three 
months  the  sunshine  is  well- 
nigh  incessant.  There 


is    no 


THE    MERIDIAN    SHAFT. 


loss  of  time  at  night.     The  flowers  do  not  close  in  sleep.    All 
vegetation  rushes  to  maturity.     Thus  vegetables  in  the  Arctic 


114 


NORWAY 


circle  will  sometimes  grow  three  inches  in  a  single  day,  and 

although  planted   six  weeks  later  than   those   in  Christiania, 

they  are  ready  for  the  table  at  the  same  time. 

Sailing  finally  from  Hammerfest,  a  voyage  of  seven  hours 

brought  us  to  our   destination  —  the   North  Cape.      I   looked 

upon  it  with  that 
passionate  eager- 
ness born  of  long 
years  of  anticipa- 
tion, and  felt  at 
once  a  thrill  of 
satisfaction,  in 
the  absence  of 
all  disappoint- 
ment. For  my 
ideal  of  that 
famous  promon- 
tory could  not  be 
more  perfect- 
ly realized  than 
this  dark- 


in 


NORWEGIAN   FLORA. 


browed,  majestic 
headland,  rising  with  perpendicular  cliffs,  one  thousand  feet 
in  height,  from  the  still  darker  ocean  at  its  base.  It  is,  in 
reality,  an  island,  divided  from  the  mainland  by  a  narrow 
strait,  like  a  gigantic  sentinel  stationed  in  advance  to  guard 
the  coast  of  Europe  from  the  Arctic  storms.. 

Embarking  here  in  boats,  we  drew  still  nearer  to  this 
monstrous  cliff.  From  this  point  it  resembles  a  stupendous 
fortress  surmounted  by  an  esplanade.  For  in  that  prehis- 
toric age,  when  northern  Europe  was  enveloped  in  an  icy 
mantle,  huge  glaciers  in  their  southward  march  planed  down 
its  summit  to  a  level  surface.  The  climbing  of  the  cliff, 
though  safe,  is  quite  exhausting.  Ropes  are,  however,  hung 


NORWAY 


117 


at  different  points,  and,  holding  on  to  these,  we  slowly  crept 
up  to  its  southern  parapet.  Thence  a  laborious  walk  of  fif- 
teen minutes  brought  us  at  last  to  the  highest  elevation, 
marked  by  a  granite  monument  erected  to  commemorate 
King  Oscar's  visit  to  the  place  in  1873. 

It  is  a  wonderfully  impressive  moment  when  one  stands 
thus  on  the  northern  boundary  of  Europe,  so  near  and  yet  so 
far  from  the  North  Pole.  It  seemed  to  me  as  if  the  outer- 
most limit  of  our  planet  had  been  reached.  Nowhere,  not 
even  in  the  desert,  have  I  felt  so  utterly  remote  from  civiliza- 
tion, or  so  near  to  the  infinitude  of  space. 

But  presently  from  our  steamer,  anchored  near  the  base, 
some  rockets  rose  and  burst  in  fiery  showers  far  below  us.  It 
was  a  signal  for  us  to  be  on  our  guard.  I  looked  at  my 
watch.  It  was  exactly  five  minutes  before  midnight.  Advan- 
cing, therefore,  to  the  edge  of  the  cliff,  I  looked  upon  a  unique 
and  never-to-be-forgotten  scene.  Below,  beyond  me,  and  on 
either  side,  lay  _— — «_  m  SUDlime  and  aw- 

ful solitude  ^*^*  ***^**^  the  Arctic  sea, 

stretch-  _>^  ^S^  ing  away 


NORTH   CAPE. 


NORWAY 


STUPENDOUS   CLIFFS. 


ance  born  of  the  twilight  and 
the  waters  like  a  benediction; 
and  beauty,  when  I  looked 
shoulder  of  the 
globe,  I  saw  the 
MIDNIGHT  SUN. 
At  this  great 
height  and 
northern  lati- 
tude it  did  not 
sink  to  the  hori- 
zon, but  merely 
paused,  appar- 
entlysome  twen- 
ty feet  above  the 
waves,  then 
gradually  rose 
again.  It  was 
the  last  of  count- 


to  that  still  un- 
discovered re- 
gion of  the 
north,  which, 
with  its  fatal 
charm,  has  lured 
so  many  brave 
explorers  to 
their  doom. 

Straight  from 
the  polar  sea, 
apparently,  the 
wondrous  north- 
ern light  (an 
opalescent  radi- 

the  dawn)  came  stealing  o'er 
and    to  enhance  its   mystery 

northward    over    the    rounded 


THE   MIDNIGHT  SUN. 


NORWAY 


119 


less  sunsets  which  had  that  day  been  following  each  other 
round  the  globe.  It  was  the  first  of  countless  sunrises  which, 
hour  after  hour,  in  so  many  continents  would  wake  to  life 
again  a  sleeping  world.  I  have  seen  many  impressive  sights 
in  many  lands,  but  nothing,  until  Time  for  me  shall  be  no 
more,  can  equal  in  solemnity  the  hour  when,  standing  on  this 
threshold  of  a  continent,  and  on  the  edge  of  this  immeasur- 
able sea,  I  watched,  without  one  moment's  interval  of  dark- 
ness, the  Past  transform  itself  into  the  Present,  and  Yesterday 
become  To-day. 


KING   OSCAR'S    MONUMENT — NORTH   CAPE. 


SWITZERLAND 


THE  Parsees  say  that  mountains  are  the  heads  of  the  long 
pins  that  bind  the  world  together.      Geologists  assure 
us  that  they  are  merely  wrinkles  on  the  face  of  Mother 
Earth,   while   we   all    know    that,   relatively  to     the    world's 
diameter,  the  highest  elevation  of  our  planet  is  but  the  thick- 
ness of  a  hair  laid  on  an  ordinary  globe. 

But  these  comparisons  do  not  affect  the  grandeur  of  the 
peaks  themselves,  when  we  behold  them  face  to  face,  crowned 
with  unmeasured  miles  of  snow,  girded  with  glaciers  as  with 
coats  of  mail,  and  towering  up  among  the  clouds  as  though  to 
storm  the  very  heights  of  Heaven.  If  it  be  true,  as  some 
have  claimed,  that  travel  blunts  the  edge  of  enjoyment,  and 
renders  one  indifferent  and  blast,  it  is  true  only  of  those  arti- 


124 


SWITZERLAND 


ficial  charms  which  form  the  attraction  of  great  cities  and  the 
pleasure-haunts  of  men.  These  may  at  last  grow  wearisome. 
But  Nature  wears  a  freshness  and  a  glory  that  can  never  fade. 


Continual  worship  at  her  shrine 
increases  our  desire  for  that  hap- 
piness which  only  Nature  gives, 
and  adds  to  our  capacity  for  its  appreciation. 

Switzerland,  then,  of  all  countries  in  the  world,  is  the  one 
of  which  the  traveler  is  likely  to  tire  least.  The  vision  of  its 
kingly  Alps  must  always  thrill  the  heart  with  exultation.  Its 
noble  roads  and  unsurpassed  hotels  make  rest  or  travel  on  its 
heights  delightful;  while  the  keen  tonic  of  its  mountain  air 
restores  the  jaded  frame,  as  ancients  dreamed  a  draught  would 
do  from  the  pure  fountain  of  perpetual  youth. 

One  of  the  most  attractive  gateways  to  this  land  of  moun- 
tains is  Interlaken.  All  tourists  in  Switzerland  come  hither, 
almost  of  necessity.  No  other  point  is  quite  so  central  for 
excursions.  None  is  more  easy  of  approach.  As  its  name 


SWITZERLAND 


125 


indicates,  it  lies  between  two  famous  lakes  which  rival  one 
another  in  respect  to  beauty.  Before  it,  also,  are  the  charm- 
ing vales  of  Lauterbrunnen  and  Grindelwald,  which  lead  one 
into  the  very  heart  of  the  Bernese  Oberland.  Moreover,  from 
sixty  to  eighty  thousand  people  come  here  every  year  to 
render  homage  to  the  peerless  sovereign  who  holds  court  at 
Interlaken.  There  is  no  need  to  name  the  peak  to  which  I 
thus  allude,  for  everywhere  in  Interlaken  we  discern  the  crown- 
ing glory  of  the  place  —  beside  which  all  others  fade  — 
the  lovely  Jungfrau,  queen  of  Alpine  heights.  Her  grand, 
resplendent  form  fills  the  entire  space  between  the  encircling 
peaks,  and  forms  a  dazzling  centre-piece  of  ice  and  snow, 
nearly  fourteen  thousand  feet  in  height.  It  is  a  never-ending 
pleasure  to  rest  upon  the  broad  piazzas  of  Interlaken's  pala- 
tial hotels,  and  gaze  upon  this  radiant  mount.  It  sometimes 
looks  like  a  great  white  cloud  forever  anchored  in  one  place,  but 
oftener  sparkles  as  if  covered  with  a  robe  of  diamonds ;  mantled, 
as  it  is,  with  snows  of  virgin  purity  from  base  to  heaven-pierc- 
ing summit. 


JUNGFRAU  FROM  INTERLAKEN 


126 


SWITZERLAND 


Yet  were  we  to  examine  closely  a  single  section  of  the 
Jungfrau,  we  should  discover  that  its  shoulders  are  covered 
with  enormous  snow-fields,  the  origin  of  stupendous  ava- 
lanches. For  amid  all  this  beauty  there  is  much  here  that 


PARLIAMENT   BUILDINGS,  BERNE. 


is  harsh  and  terrible.  Appalling  precipices,  dangerous  cre- 
vasses, and  well-nigh  constant  falls  of  hundreds  of  tons  of  rock 
and  ice,  render  the  wooing  of  this  "  Maiden  of  the  Alps  "  a 
difficult  undertaking.  In  fact,  the  name  Jungfrau,  or  Maiden, 
was  given  to  the  mountain,  because  its  pure  summit  seemed 
destined  to  remain  forever  virgin  to  the  tread  of  man.  Many 
had  sought  to  make  her  conquest,  but  in  vain.  At  last,  how- 
ever, in  1811  (nearly  thirty  years  after  the  subjugation  of 
Mont  Blanc),  two  brothers  gained  the  crest ;  and  since  that 
time  its  icy  slopes  have  reflected  the  forms  of  many  ambitious 
and  courageous  travelers. 

No  tourist  who  has  been  at  Interlaken  on  a  pleasant  even- 
ing can  possibly  forget  the  vision  which  presents  itself  as 
day  reluctantly  retires  from  the  Jungfrau  at  the  approach  of 
night. 


SWITZERLAND 


•129 


SUNSET   AT    INTERLAKEN. 

The  sun  is  low; 

Yon  peak  of  snow 
Is  purpling  'neath  the  sunset  glow; 

The  rosy  light 

Makes  richly  bright 
The  Jungfrau's  veil  of  snowy  white. 

From  vales  that  sleep 

Night's  shadows  creep 
To  take  possession  of  the  steep; 

While,  as  they  rise, 

The  western  skies 
Seem  loth  to  leave  so  fair  a  prize. 

The  light  of  Day 

Still  loves  to  stay 
And  round  that  pearly  summit  play; 

How  fair  a  sight, 

That  plain  of  light 
Contended  for  by  Day  and  Night! 


130 


SWITZERLAND 

Now  fainter  shines. 

As  Day  declines, 
The  lustrous  height  which  he  resigns; 

The  shadows  gain 

Th'  illumined  plain; 
The  Jungfrau  pales,  as  if  in  pain. 


ON   LAKE   THUN. 


When  daylight  dies, 

The  azure  skies 
Seem  sparkling  with  a  thousand  eyes, 

Which  watch  with  grace 

From  depths  of  space 
The  sleeping  Jungfrau's  lovely  face. 

And  when  is  born 

The  ruddy  Dawn, 
Forerunner  of  the  coming  Morn, 

Along  the  skies 

It  quickly  flies 
To  kiss  the  Maiden's  opening  eyes. 

The  timid  flush, 

The  rosy  blush, 
Which  then  o'er  brow  and  face  do  rush, 

Are  pure  and  fair 

Beyond  compare, 
Resplendent  in  the  illumined  air. 


SWITZERLAND 


And  thus  alway, 

By  night  or  day, 
Her  varying  suitors  homage  pay; 

And  tinged  with  rose, 

Or  white  with  snows, 
The  same  fair  radiant  form  she  shows. 


• 


I  have  said  that  Interlaken  was  an  admirable  place  from 
which  to  make  excursions.  Shall  we  not  put  this  to  the  proof 
by  entering  now  the  charming  and  romantic  vale  of  Lauter- 
brunnen,  dainty  and  lovely  as  a  dimple  in  the  cheek  of  Nature? 
It  is  only  half  a  mile  in  width,  and  is  bounded  on  both  sides  by 
lofty  mountains,  over  which  the  winter's  sun  can  hardly  climb 
till  midday.  And  yet  luxuriant  vegetation  covers  it,  as  with 
an  emerald  carpet.  The  bases  of  these  mountains  seem  to  rest 
on  flowers.  The  awful  scenery  which  surrounds  it  makes  it  seem 
doubly  sweet  and  fair;  and  one  can  hardly  imagine  a  more 
striking  picture  than  that  of  this 
peaceful  valley,  looking  smilingly 
up  into  the  stern  and  savage  faces 
of  the  monsters  which  environ  it, 
as  if  unconscious  of  its  helpless- 
ness, or  trusting  confidently  in 
their  mercy. 

A  little  distance 
up  the  valley,  we 
note  its  most  re- 
markable feature, 
the  Fall  of  the 
Staubbach,  or 
"  Dust -brook," 
which  here  leaps 
boldly  over  the 
brow  of  the 
mountain, 

••^3§5IF* 

THE    STAUBBACH. 


132 


SWITZERLAND 


VALLEY   OF   LAUTERBRUNNEN. 


nine  hundred  and 
eighty  feet  above  us. 
Long  before  it  reaches 
the  ground,  it  is  con- 
verted into  a  vast, 
diaphanous  cloud  of 
spray,  which  the 
breeze  scatters  into 
thousands  of  fantastic 
wreaths.  Whenever 
the  sunlight  streams 
directly  through  this, 
the  effect  is  marvelous. 
It  then  resembles  a 
transparent  veil  of  sil- 
very lace,  woven  with 

all    the    colors    of    the  rainbow,   fluttering  from   the   fir-clad 

rocks.      Byron    compared   it   to   the    tail   of  a  white    horse, 

streaming  in  the  wind ;   but 

Goethe's  description  is  best, 

when  he  exclaims: 

"  In  clouds  of  spray, 
Like  silver  dust, 
It  veils  the  rock 
In  rainbow  hues; 
And  dancing  down 
With  music  soft, 
Is  lost  in  air." 

But  the  ambitious  trav- 
eler will  ascend  far  higher 
than  the  summit  of  this 
waterfall  to  stand  upon  the 
mighty  cliffs  which  line  the 
valley  like  gigantic  walls. 


GOING  TO   MURREN. 


SWITZERLAND 


135 


COMFORT   IN    SWITZERLAND. 


The  task  is 
easily  accom- 
plished now. 
Ten  years  ago 
it  was  an  ardu- 
ous climb,  on 
horseback  or  on 
foot ;  but  now 
an  electric  rail- 
road winds  for 
miles  along  the 
edge  of  frightful 
precipices,  and  (where  a  vertical  ascent  is  absolutely  neces- 
sary) another  kind  of  car  lifts  one  a  thousand  feet  or  so 
toward  heaven,  as  smoothly  and  as  swiftly  as  a  hotel  elevator. 
Truly  the  visitor  of  a  dozen  years  ago  perceives  amazing 
changes  to-day  among  the  Alps.  Where,  formerly,  a  man 
would  hardly  dare  to  go  on  foot,  trains  now  ascend  with  myri- 
ads of  travelers!  Hotels 
and  even  railroad  stations 
up  among  the  clouds  have 
driven  from  the  lofty 
crags  the  eagle  and  the 
chamois.  This  to  the 
genuine  Alpine  climber 
seems  like  sacrilege ;  but, 
after  all,  what  contribu- 
tors to  the  happiness  of 
mankind  these  mountain 
railroads  are !  Without 
them,  few  would  venture 
here ;  and  all  the  pa- 
geantry of  Nature  in 
these  upper  regions 


MODERN"   ALPINE    CLIMBING. 


136 


SWITZERLAND 


would  unfold  itself  through  the  revolving  years  with  scarce  an 

eye  to  note  its  beauty  or  voice  to  tell  its  glories  to  the  world. 

In  startling  contrast  to  my  first  ascent  to   the  place,  now 

many  years  ago, 
it  was  by  this 
luxurious  mode 
of  travel  that  I 
recently  ap- 
proached the 
little  village 
known  as  Miir- 
ren.  It  is  the 
loftiest  hamlet 
in  all  Switzer- 
land, consist- 
ing of  a  cluster 
of  Swiss  cot- 
tages, whose 

nuiuuun* 

roofs,    heavily 

freighted  with  protecting  stones,  project  beyond  the  walls  like 
broad-brimmed  hats.  So  singular  is  the  appearance  of  a 
village  at  this  dizzy  height,  that  one  is  tempted  to  believe 
that  the  houses  had  been  blown  up  from  the  valley  by 
some  reckless  blast,  and  dropped  at  random  on  the  lonely 
tableland. 

Yet  here,  to  our  astonishment,  we  find  hotels,  which  some- 
how year  by  year  outlive  the  horrors  of  the  Alpine  winter, 
and  in  the  summer  season  welcome  their  hundreds  of  adven- 
turous guests.  But,  after  all,  where  in  Switzerland  is  there 
not  a  hotel?  Fast  as  the  arteries  of  travel  are  extended,  on 
every  prominent  point  commanding  a  fine  view  is  planted 
a  hotel,  a  forerunner  of  the  world  of  travel.  This  is,  in  fact, 
one  of  the  charms  of  Switzerland.  The  Andes  and  Himalayas 
may  possess  higher  peaks  and  grander  glaciers;  but  there  one 


SWITZERLAND 


137 


cannot  (as  among  the  Alps)  ride  all  day  long  on  perfect  roads, 
and  in  the  evening  sit  down  to  a  well-cooked  dinner,  hear 
music  on  a  broad  veranda,  consult  the  latest  newspapers,  and 
sleep  in  a  comfortable  bed. 

Even  before  the  advent  of  the  railroad,  I  was  a  thousand- 
fold repaid  for  climbing  up  to  Murren;  for  here  so  closely 
do  the  Alpine  Titans  press  on  every  side,  that  if  Mohammed 
had  ever  found  his  way  hither,  he  might  well  have  believed 
that  the  mountains  were  coming  to  him,  and  not  he  to  the 
mountains. 

The  surrounding  summits  reveal  to  the  astonished  sight 
heights,  lengths,  and  depths  which  overwhelm  one  with  sub- 
limity. What  seemed  an  hour  ago  mere  glistening  mounds 
are  now  transformed  by  the  grandeur  of  this  Olympian  eleva- 
tion into  vast 
snowfields,  miles 
in  length,  or 
into  seas  of  ice, 
which  pour 
down  through 
the  valleys  in 
slow-moving 
floods.  In  early 
summer,  too, 
one-  hears  at 
frequent  inter- 
vals the  roar  of 
some  tremen- 
dous avalanche 
on  the  great 
mountains  oppo- 
site, from  which  the  tourist  is  separated  only  by  a  yawning  gulf. 

Never  shall  I  forget  the  morning  when  I  stood  here  wait- 
ing for  the  sunrise  view.  There  was  none  of  that  crowd  of  jab- 


A    HOTEL  AT  MURREN. 


138 


SWITZERLAND 


bering  tourists  who  often  profane  the  summit  of  the  Rigi,  and 
seem  to  measure  the  extent  of  their  pleasure  by  the  noise  they 
make.  I  was  well-nigh  alone.  When  I  emerged  from  the 
hotel,  a  purple  line  was  visible  in  the  east,  but  clouds  and 
mists  half  veiled  the  mountains  from  my  sight.  At  length, 
however,  noiselessly  but  steadily,  a  hidden  hand  seemed 
to  draw  back  the  misty  curtain  of  the  night.  Slowly  the 
giant  forms  molded  themselves  from  darkness  into  light, 
until  their  foreheads  first,  and  then  each  fold  and  outline 
of  their  dazzling  shapes,  stood  forth  in  bold  relief  against  the 
sky.  The  glaciers  sparkled  with  the  first  bright  beams  like 
jeweled  highways  of  the  gods,  —  till,  finally,  as  the  sun's 
disk  came  fairly  into  view,  the  whole  vast  range  glowed  like  a 
wall  of  tinted  porcelain.  It  seemed  as  if  a  thousand  sacred 
fires  had  been  kindled  on  these  mountain  altars,  in  glad 
response  to  the  triumphant  greeting  of  the  god  of  day. 

On  descending  from  Miirren,  the  tourist  is  attracted  to 
another  famous  object,  only  a  few  miles  from  Interlaken, — 
the  glacier  of  Grindelwald. 


A  VIEW   FROM   MURREN. 


SWITZERLAND 


141 


It  was  while  visiting  this  sea  of  ice  that  my  guide  suddenly 
turned  and  asked  me  with  a  smile,  "  Are  you  a  clergyman?  " 

I  answered  that  I  could  not  claim- that  flattering  distinc- 
tion,   but    begged    to    know    the    reason    of    his    question. 
"Because,"    he   said,    "clergymen  seem   to  be    unlucky   in 
Grindelwald ;  all 
the    accidents 
that   take    place 
here    somehow 
happen       to 
them." 

As  we  were 
at  that  moment 
just  about  to 
venture  on  the 
ice,  I  naturally 
recalled  Charles 
Lamb's  reply 
when  he  was  re- 
quested to  say 
grace  at  dinner. 
"What,"  he 

exclaimed,    "are  there  no  clergymen  present?     Then  I  will 
say,  the  Lord  be  thanked!  " 

A  moment  or  two  later  we  entered  the  well-known  cavern 
in  this  glacier  —  a  strange  and  chilling  passageway,  two  hun- 
dred feet  in  length,  cut  in  the  solid  ice,  whose  gleaming  walls 
and  roof  seemed  to  be  made  of  polished  silver. 

As  I  was  picking  my  way  safely,  though  shiveringly, 
through  this  huge  refrigerator,  I  asked  my  guide  to  tell  me  about 
one  of  the  clerical  misfortunes  which  had  made  him  suspicious 
of  gentlemen  of  the  cloth.  He  turned  and  looked  at  me 
curiously.  "You  know,  of  course,  the  fate  of  our  pastor, 
M.  Mouron?"  he  exclaimed.  I  confessed  my  ignorance. 


A   GLACIER. 


142 


SWITZERLAND 


A   CHILLING   PASSAGEWAY. 


"Then  come  with  me," 
he  said.  Accordingly, 
emerging  from  the  cavern, 
we  climbed  for  nearly  an 
hour  over  great  blocks  of 
ice,  until  we  came  to  a  pro- 
found abyss.  Suspended 
from  the  frozen  parapet  a 
mass  of  icicles  pointed  mys- 
teriously down  like  ghostly 
fingers.  Then  all  was  dark. 
"  It  was  by  falling  down 
this,"  said  the  guide, 
"that  the  pastor  of 
Grindelwald  lost  his  life. 
He  was  seeking  one  day  to 

ascertain  its  depth  by  casting  stones  into  its  cavernous  maw 

and  counting  till  he  heard  the  sound  of  their  arrival  at  the 

bottom    of   the 

abyss.  Once,  in 

his    eagerness, 

he     placed    his 

staff  against  the 

opposite    edge, 

leaned  over  and 

listened.  Sud- 
denly the  ice 

gave    way,   and 

he  fell  head- 
long into  the 

crevasse.      His 

guide       ran 

breathless  to 

the  village  and 


GHOSTLY  FINGERS. 


SWITZERLAND 


informed  the  people  of  their  loss.  But,  to  his  horror,  he 
found  that  he  himself  was  looked  upon  with  suspicion.  In 
fact,  some  went  so  far  as  to  say  that  he  must  have  murdered 
their  pastor,  and  robbed  him  of  his  watch  and  purse. 

"The  guides  of  Grindelwald,  however,  who  felt  them- 
selves insulted  at  this  accusation,  united  and  agreed  that  one 
of  their  number  (chosen  by  lot)  should,  at  the  peril  of  his  life, 
descend  into  this  crevasse  to  establish  the  innocence  of  the 


accused.  The  lot  was  drawn  by 
one  of  the  bravest  of  them  all,  a 
man  named  Bergenen.  The  whole 

'-.***" 

village  assembled  on  the  flood  of 

ice  to  witness  the  result  of  the  search.  After  partaking  of 
the  sacrament,  Bergenen  fastened  a  rope  around  his  waist 
and  a  lantern  to  his  neck.  In  one  hand  he  took  a  bell. 
In  the  other  he  grasped  his  iron-pointed  staff  to  keep  him- 
self from  the  sharp  edges.  Four  men  then  carefully  lowered 
him  down.  Twice,  on  the  point  of  suffocation,  he  rang  the 


144 


SWITZERLAND 


bell  and  was 
drawn  up.  Fi- 
nally a  heavier 
weight  was  felt 
upon  the  rope, 
and  Bergenen  re 
appeared,  bring- 
ing the  body 
of  the  pastor 
from  a  depth  of 
seven  hundred 
and  fifty  feet. 
A  mighty  shout 
went  up  from  the  guides  and  populace  as  well.  The  man 
was  innocent.  Both  watch  and  purse  were  found  upon  the 
corpse!  " 

As  we  returned  from  Grindelwald  to  Interlaken,  we  often 
paused  to  note  the  peasants  toiling  in  the  fields.  So  far  as  their 
appearance  was  concerned,  we  might  have  supposed  them  labor- 
ers on  a  Vermont  farm ;  but  their  low  carts  were  quite  unlike 


HAY-MAKING. 


UPON  THE    HEIGHTS. 


SWITZERLAND 


our  country  hayracks;  and  the  appearance  of  a  single  ox, 
harnessed  with  ropes  around  his  horns,  presented  an  amusing 
contrast  to  the  sturdy  beasts  which,  bound  together  by  the 
yoke,  drag  to  our  barns  their  loads  of  fragrant  hay.  Women, 
of  course,  were  working  with  the  men ;  but  female  laborers 
in  Switzerland  are  not  in  the  majority.  In  many  instances 
the  ratio  is  but 
one  to  three. 

These  peas- 
ants look  up 
curiously  as  we 
drive  along, 
and  no  doubt 
think  that  we 
are  favored  be- 
ings, to  whom 
our  luxu  ries 
give  perfect 
happiness.  And 
yet  the  very 
tourists  whom 
they  thus  envy 
may,  in  a  single 

hour,  endure  more  misery  and  heartache  than  they  in  their 
simplicity  and  moderate  poverty  will  ever  know.  Among 
these  people  are  not  found  the  framers  of  those  hopeless 
questions:  "Is  life  worth  living?"  and  "Does  death  end 
all?"  The  real  destroyers  of  life's  happiness  are  not  a 
lowly  home  and  manual  labor.  They  are  the  constant  worri- 
ments  and  cares  of  artificial  life, —  satiety  of  pleasures,  the 
overwork  of  mental  powers,  and  the  disenchantment  of  sat 
isfied  desires. 

Filled  with  such  thoughts,  as  we  beheld  the  humble  but 
well-kept  and  ever  picturesque  dwellings  of  the  farmers  of  this 


A    SWISS   FARM-HOUSE. 


146 


SWITZERLAND 


valley,  I  called  to  mind,  as  a  consoling  antidote  to  one's  first 
natural  sympathy  with  poverty,  the  story  of  the  sultan  who, 
despite  all  his  wealth  and  power,  was  always  melancholy. 
He  had  been  told  by  his  physician  that,  if  he  would  be  cured 
of  all  his  real  or  fancied  ailments,  he  must  exchange  shirts 

with  the  first 
perfectly  happy 
man  he  could 
find.  Out  went 
his  officers  in 
search  of  such 
a  person. 

The  hunt 
was  long  and 
arduous,  but 
finally  the  for- 
tunate being 
was  found. 
When  he  was 
brought  to  the 
sultan,  how- 
ever, it  was  dis- 
covered, alas!  that  this  perfectly  happy  individual  was  not  the 
possessor  of  a  shirt. 

From  Interlaken,  every  tourist  makes  a  short  excursion 
to  one  of  the  best  known  of  Alpine  waterfalls,  —  the  Giessbach. 
Set  in  a  glorious  framework  of  dark  trees,  it  leaves  the  cliff, 
one  thousand  feet  above,  and  in  a  series  of  cascades  leaps 
downward  to  the  lake.  If  this  descending  torrent  were 
endowed  with  consciousness,  I  fancy  it  would  be  as  wretched 
in  its  present  state  as  a  captive  lion  in  a  cage,  continually 
stared  at  by  a  curious  multitude.  For  never  was  a  cascade 
so  completely  robbed  of  liberty  and  privacy  as  this.  A  path- 
way crosses  it  repeatedly  by  means  of  bridges,  and  seems  to 


THE   GIESSBACH. 


SWITZERLAND 


149 


bind  it  to  the  mountain  as  with  a  winding  chain.  Behind  it 
are  numerous  galleries  where  visitors  may  view  it  from  the 
rear.  Arbors  and  seats  are  also  placed  on  either  side;  and  thus, 
through  every  hour  of  the  day,  people  to  right  of  it,  people 
to  left  of  ft,  people  in  rear  of  it,  people  in  front  of  it,  look 
on  and  wonder.  Even  at  night  it  has  but  little  rest ;  for  hardly 
have  the  shadows  shrouded  it,  when  it  is  torn  from  its  obscurity 
by  torches,  calcium  lights,  and  fireworks,  which  all  along 
its  course  reveal  it  to  the  admiring  crowd  in  a  kaleidoscope 
of  colors. 

Far  happier,  therefore,  seems  another  waterfall  of  Switzer- 
land,—  the  Reichembach;  for  this  is  left  comparatively  undis- 
turbed within 
its  mountain 
solitude.  Far 
o  ff  ,  upon  a 
mountain  crest, 
a  blue  lake,  set 
like  a  sapphire 
amid  surround- 
ing glaciers, 
serves  as  a  cra- 
dle for  this  new- 
born river. 
Thence  it 
emerges,  tim- 
idly at  first,  to 
make  its  way 
down  to  the 

outer  world.  With  each  descent,  however,  it  gains  fresh  im- 
petus and  courage.  Return  is  now  impossible.  The  die  is 
cast.  Its  fate  is  now  decided.  We  almost  wish  that  we  could 
check  its  course  amid  this  beautiful  environment.  It  will  not 
find  a  sweeter  or  a  safer  place.  Too  soon  it  will  be  forced  to 


THE    REICHENBACH. 


ISO 


SWITZERLAND 


THE    PROMENADE. 


bear  great  bur- 
dens, turn  count- 
less wheels,  and 
minister  to  thou- 
sands. Then,  at 
the  last,  will 
come  old  Ocean's 
cold  and  passion- 
less embrace,  in 
which  all  its  in- 
dividuality will 
disappear. 

Another  portal  to  this  land  of  mountains,  rivaling  Inter- 
laken  in  attractiveness,  is  Lucerne,  reclining  peacefully  beside 
its  noble  lake.  I  do  not  know  a  resting-place  in  Switzerland 
which  is  in  all  respects  so  satisfying  as  this. 

Its  hotels  are  among  the  finest  in  the  world ;  the  town 
itself  is  pretty  and  attractive ;  and  in  the  foreground  is  a 
panorama  too  varied  to  become  monotonous,  too  beautiful 
ever  to  lose  its  charm.  Mount  Pilate  and  the  Rigi  guard 
Lucerne  like  sentinels,  the  one  on  the  east,  the  other  on  the 
west,  like  halting-  ^^^*^^^^^^  places  for  the  morn- 
site,  ^fifw  .  uPon 


THE   QUAY,  LUCERNE 


SWITZERLAND 


the  southern  boundary  of  the  lake,  miles  upon  miles  of 
snow-capped  mountains  rise  against  the  sky,  as  if  to  indicate 
the  limit  of  the  world. 

One  of  the  sentinels  of  Lucerne,  as  I  have  said,  is  Mount 
Pilate.  Toward  this  the  faces  of  all  tourists  turn,  as  to  a 
huge  barom-  eter;  for  by  its 

cap  of 


clouds  Pilate  foretells  the 
weather  which  excursionists 
must  look  for.  There  is 
hardly  need  to  recall  the 
popular  derivation  of  the 
mountain's  name.  It  was  in  olden  times  believed  that  Pon- 
tius Pilate,  in  his  wanderings  through  the  world,  impelled  at 
last  by  horror  and  remorse,  committed  suicide  upon  its 
summit.  On  this  account  the  mountain  was  considered 
haunted.  At  one  time  the  town  authorities  even  forbade 
people  to  ascend  it  on  a  Friday!  But  now  there  is  a  hotel 
on  the  top,  and  every  day  in  the  week,  Friday  included,  a 
railway  train  climbs  resolutely  to  the  summit,  enabling 
thousands  to  enjoy  every  summer  a  view  scarcely  to  be  sur- 
passed in  grandeur  or  extent  at  any  point  among  the  Alps. 
No  allusion  to  Lucerne  would  be  complete  without  reference 


152 


SWITZERLAND 


to  that  noble  product  of  Thorwaldsen's  genius,  which,  in 
more  respects  than  one,  is  the  lion  of  the  place.  It  is  dif- 
ficult to  imagine  a  more  appropriate  memorial  than  this,  of  the 
fidelity  and  valor  exhibited  one  hundred  years  ago  by  the 
Swiss  guard,  who  in  defense  of  Louis  XVI  laid  down  their 
lives  at  the  opening  of  the  French 
tion.  No  view  does  justice  to  this 
statue.  Within  a 
monstrous  niche, 
which  has  been  hol- 
lowed out  of  a  per- 
pendicular cliff,  re- 
clines, as  in  some 
mountain  cave,  the 
prostrate  figure  of  a 
lion,  thirty  feet  in 
length.  It  is  evident 
that  the  animal  has 
received  a  mortal 
wound.  The  handle 
of  a  spear  protrudes 
from  his  side.  Yet 
even  in  the  agony  of 
death  he  guards  the 
Bourbon  shield  and 
lily,  which  he  has 
given  his  life  to  de- 
fend. One  paw  pro- 
tects  them;  his 
drooping  head  caresses  them,  and  gives  to  them  a 
mute  farewell.  Beneath  the  figure,  chiseled  in  the 
rock,  are  the  names  of  the  officers  murdered  by  the  mob; 
while  above  is  the  brief  but  eloquent  inscription:  "To  the 
fidelity  and  bravery  of  the  Swiss."  In  the  whole  world  I 
do  not  know  of  a  monument  more  simple  yet  impressive. 


THE   ALPINE    ELEVAT" 
ON   MOUNT   PILATE. 


SWITZERLAND 


153 


One  of  the 
greatest  pleas- 
ures of  the  tourist 
in  Lucerne  is  to 
sail  out,  as  he 
may  do  at  almost 
any  hour  of  the 
day,  upon  its 
lovely  lake . 
This,  in  respect 
to  scenery,  sur- 
passes all  its 
Alpine  rivals. 
Twenty-  three 
miles  in  length, 
it  has  the  form 
of  a  gigantic  cross,  each  arm  of  which  (when  looked  upon 
glow  of  sunset  from  a  neighboring  height)  seems  like  a 


THE  LION   OF   LUCERNE. 


in  the 
plain 


of  gold  and  lapis-lazuli 
set  in  a  frame-work  of  ma- 
jestic  mountains.  No  tour 


154 


SWITZERLAND 


in  Switzerland 
is  complete 
without  a  sail 
upon  this  fair 
expanse  of 
water.  Hence 
more  than  half 
a  million  trav- 
elers cross  it 
every  year  dur- 
ing the  summer 
months  alone, 

and  tiny  steamers  are  continually  visible,  cutting  their  furrows 
on  its  smooth,  transparent  surface,  as  sharply  as  a  diamond 
marks  a  pane  of  glass. 

Moreover,  when  the  boat  glides  inward  toward  the  shore, 
one  sees  that  other  elements  of  beauty  are  not  wanting  here. 
Pretty  chalets  with  overhanging  roofs;  rich  pastures,  orchards, 
and  gardens, — all  these,  with  numerous  villages,  succeed  each 
other  here  for  ^^^^^^ ""^^^^^  miles,  between 

the  lake        ^^^^  ^^^^          and  the 


MAKING   A    LANDING. 


TELL'S  CHAPEL. 


MONTREUX. 


SWITZERLAND 


157 


bold  cliffs  that  rise  toward  Heaven.  Nor  is  this  all.  The 
villages  possess  a  history,  since  these  romantic  shores  were 
formerly  the  stage  on  which  Swiss  patriots  performed  those 
thrilling  scenes  immortalized  by  Schiller  in  his  drama  of 
"  William  Tell." 

In  fact,  at  one  point  half  concealed  among  the  trees  is  the 
well-known  structure,  called  Tell's  Chapel.  It  stands  upon 
the  spot  where,  it  is  said,  the  hero,  springing  from  the  ty- 
rant's boat,  escaped  the 
clutches  of  the  Austrian 
governor.  As  is  well 
known,  doubts  have  been 
cast  on  even  the  existence 
of  this  national  chieftain; 
and  yet  it  is  beyond  per- 
adventure  that  a  chapel 
was  erected  here  to  his 
memory  as  early  as  the 
fifteenth  century,  and  only 
eleven  years  ago  this  struc- 
ture was  restored  at  gov- 
ernment expense.  More- 
over, once  a  year  at  least, 
the  people  of  the  neigh- 
boring cantons  gather  here 

in  great  numbers  to  celebrate  a  festival  which  has  been  held 
by  their  ancestors  for  centuries. 

The  little  building  is  certainly  well  calculated  to  awaken 
patriotism.  Appropriate  frescoes,  representing  exploits  as- 
cribed to  William  Tell,  adorn  the  walls;  while  opposite  the 
doorway  is  an  altar  at  which  religious  services  are  held.  How 
solemn  and  impressive  must  the  ceremony  be,  when  religious 
rites  are  performed  in  such  a  historic  and  picturesque  locality 
in  the  presence  of  a  reverent  multitude !  At  such  a  time  this 


ALTAR  IN  TELL'S  CHAPEL. 


I58 


SWITZERLAND 


tiny  shrine  may  be  considered  part  of  the  sublime  cathedral 
of  the  mountains,  whose  columns  are  majestic  trees,  whose 
stained  glass  is  autumnal  foliage,  whose  anthems  are  the  songs 


LAKE   LUCERNE   BY  NIGHT. 


of  birds,  whose  requiems  are  the  moaning  of  the  pines,  and 
whose  grand  roof  is  the  stupendous  arch  of  the  unmeasured 
sky,  beneath  which  the  snow-clad  mountains  rise  like  jeweled 
altars,  lighted  at  night,  as  if  with  lofty  tapers,  by  the  glitter- 
ing stars. 

But  to  appreciate  the  beauty  of  this  sheet  of  water,  one 
should  behold  it  when  its  surface  is  unruffled  by  a  breeze.  En- 
amoured of  their  own  beauty,  the  mountains  then  look  down 
into  the  lake  as  into  an  incomparable  mirror.  It  is  an  invert- 
ed world.  The  water  is  as  transparent  as  the  sky.  The  very 
breezes  hold  their  breath,  lest  they  should  mar  the  exquisite 
reflection.  The  neighboring  peaks  display  their  rugged  fea- 
tures in  this  limpid  flood,  as  if  unconscious  of  the  wrinkles 
which  betray  their  age.  The  pine  trees  stand  so  motionless 
upon  the  shore  that  they  appear  like  slender  ferns.  Instinc- 


SWITZERLAND 


159 


tively  we  call  to  mind  those  graceful  lines,  supposed  to  be  ad- 
dressed by  such  a  lake  to  an  adjoining  mountain: 

"I  lie  forever  at  thy  feet, 

Dear  hill  with  lofty  crown; 
My  waters  smile  thy  crags  to  greet, 
As  they  look  proudly  down. 

The  odor  of  thy  wind-tossed  pines 

Is  message  sweet  to  me; 
It  makes  me  dimple  with  delight, 

Because  it  comes  from  thee. 

4 

Thou,  lofty,  grand,  above  the  world; 

Its  lowly  servant,  I; 
Yet  see,  within  my  sunny  depths 

Is  smiling  thy  blue  sky. 


FLUELEN,  ON  LAKE  LUCERNE. 

Thou  art  so  far,  and  yet  how  near! 

For  though  we  are  apart, 
I  make  myself  a  mirror  clear, 

And  hold  thee  in  my  heart." 

• 
Above  this  lake  itself  extends  for  miles  the  famous  Axen- 

strasse, — a  splendid  specimen  of  engineering  skill,  cut  in  the 


i6o 


SWITZERLAND 


solid  rock,  hun- 
dreds of  feet 
above  the 
waves.  Yet  this 
is  no  excep- 
tional  thing  in 
Switzerland , 
and  nothing 
stamps  itself 
more  forcibly 
upon  the  tour- 
ist's mind  with- 
in this  region  of 
the  Alps  than 
man's  trium- 
phant victory 
over  obstacles, 

in  the  formation  of  its  roads.  Despite  their  great  cost  of 
construction  these  prove  profitable  investments;  for  the  better 
the  roads,  the  more  people  will  travel  over  them.  Referring 
to  them,  some  one  has  prettily  said,  that  by  such  means  the 


THE   AXENSTRASSE. 


IN    THE    ENGADINE. 


SWITZERLAND 


161 


Swiss  transform 
the  silver  of 
their  mountain 
peaks  into  five 
franc  pieces, 
and  change  the 
golden  glow  of 
their  sunrises 
and  sunsets  into 
napoleons. 

How  great 
the  difference 
between  the 
Switzerland  of 
to-day  and  that 
of  fifty  years 
ago!  Where  formerly  the 
picked  their  precarious  way 


MOUNTAIN   GALLERIES. 


ENGINEERING   SKILL. 


solitary  peasant  and  his  mule 
through  mud  or  snow,  luxurious 
landaus  now  roll  easily 
along,  on  thoroughfares 
of  rock,  without  a  stone 
or  obstruction  of  any 
kind  to  mar  their  sur- 
faces. Nor  is  there  dan- 
ger of  disaster.  Walled 
in  by  massive  parapets, 
an  accident  is  here  im- 
possible; and  in  these 
mighty  galleries,  hewn 
from  the  mountain  side 
itself,  the  traveler  is  per- 
fectly secure,  although 
an  avalanche  may  fall  or 
cyclones  rage  above  him, 


1 62 


SWITZERLAND 


The  Axenstrasse  may  be  said  to  form  a  part  of  that  mag- 
nificent route  from  Switzerland  to  Italy,  known  as  the  St. 
Gotthard.  It  is,  in  truth,  the  king  of  Alpine  roads;  resem- 
bling a  mighty  chain  which  man,  the  victor,  has  imposed 
upon  the  vanquished  Alps, —  one  end  sunk  deep  in  the  Italian 
Lakes,  the  other  guarded  by  the  Lion  of  Lucerne, —  and  all 
the  intervening  links  kept  burnished  brightly  by  the  hands  of 
trade.  True,  within  the  last  few  years,  the  carriage-road 
across  the  St.  Gotthard  has  been  comparatively  neglected, 

since  the  longest 
tunnel  in  the 
world  has  to  a 
great  extent  re- 
placed it.  Tran- 
quil enough  this 
tunnel  frequently 
appears,  but  I 
have  seen  it  when 
great  clouds  of 
smoke  were  pour- 
ing out  of  its 
huge  throat,  as 
from  the  crater 
of  a  great  vol- 
cano. A  strong 

wind  blowing  from  the  south  was  then,  no  doubt,  clearing 
this  subterranean  flue;  and  I  was  glad  that  I  had  not  to 
breathe  its  stifling  atmosphere,  but,  on  the  contrary,  seated 
in  a  carriage,  could  lose  no  portion  of  the  glorious  scenery, 
while  drinking  in  great  draughts  of  the  pure  mountain  air. 

Still,  whether  we  travel  by  the  railroad  of  the  St.  Gotthard 
or  not,  we  must  not  underrate  its  usefulness,  nor  belittle  the 
great  engineering  triumphs  here  displayed.  Its  length,  too, 
amazes  one,  for  not  only  is  the  principal  tunnel  nine  and  a  half 


ST.  GOTTHARD   TUNNEL. 


SWITZERLAND 


165 


miles  long,  but  there  are  fifty-five  others  on  the  line,  the 
total  length  of  which,  cut  inch  by  inch  out  of  the  solid  granite, 
is  more  than  twenty-five  miles.  When  one  drives  over  the 
mountain  by  the  carriage-road,  hour  after  hour,  bewildered  by 
its  cliffs  and  gorges,  it  seems  impossible  that  the  engineer's 
calculations  could  have  been  made  so  perfectly  as  to  enable 
labor  on  the  tunnel  to  be  carried  on  from  both  ends  of  it  at 
the  same  time.  Yet  all  was  planned  so  well  that,  on  the 
28th  of  February,  1880,  the  Italian  workmen  and  the  Swiss 
both  met  at  the  designated  spot,  six  thousand  feet  below  the 
summit,  and  there  pierced  the  last  thin  barrier  that  remained 
between  the  north  and  south. 

The  number  of  railroad  bridges  on  the  St.  Gotthard  aston- 
ished me.  Their  name  is  legion.  Across  them  long  trains 
make  their  way  among  the  clouds  like  monster  centipedes, 
creeping  along  the  mountain-sides,  or  over  lofty  viaducts. 

Here  man's  triumph  over  nature  is  complete.  How  puny 
seems  at  first  his  strength  when  measured  with  the  wind  and 


1 66 


SWITZERLAND 


avalanche !  But 
mind  has  proved 
superior  to  mat- 
ter. The  ax  was 
made,  and  at  its 
sturdy  stroke 
the  forest  yield- 
ed up  its  tribute 
for  the  construc- 
tion of  this  path- 
way. The  cav- 
erns of  the  earth 
were  also  forced 
to  surrender  the 
iron  treasured 
there  for  ages, 
and  rails  were  made,  along  whose  glittering  lines  a  crowded 
train  now  glides  as  smoothly  as  a  boat  upon  the  waves. 
And  yet  these  awful  cliffs  still  scowl  so  savagely  on  either 


THE    ST.  GOTTHARD   RAILWAY. 


SWITZERLAND 


167 


side,  that  the 
steel  rail,  which 
rests  upon  their 
shelves  of  rock, 
seems  often  like 
a  thread  of  fate, 
by  which  a  thou- 
sand lives  are 
held  suspended 
over  the  abyss. 

The  volume 
of  freight  trans- 
ported along  this 


route  must  be 
enormous.  But 
why  should  tour- 
ists (unless  compelled  by  lack  of  time)  consent  to  be  carried 
through  this  scenery  like  a  bale  of  goods,  in  darkness  rather 
than  in  daylight?  The  best  way  still  to  cross  the  Alps  is 


THE   DEVIL'S   BRIDGE. 


i68 


SWITZERLAND 


to  cross  them,  not  to  burrow  through  them.  I  should  cer- 
tainly advise  the  traveler  to  drive  from  Lake  Lucerne  over  the 
St.  Gotthard  Pass,  and  then  to  take  the  train,  if  he  desires  to 
do  so,  on  the  Italian  side,  as  it  emerges  from  the  tunnel. 
Thence,  in  a  few  brief  hours  one  can  embark  upon  Lake 
Como,  or  see  the  sunset  gild  the  statue-laden  spires  of  Milan's 
cathedral. 

The  finest  scenery  on  the  carriage-road  of  the  St.  Gott- 
hard is  in  a  wild  ravine,  through  which  the  river  Reuss 
rushes  madly.  Spanning  the  torrent  in  a  single  arch,  is  what 
is  popularly  called  "  The  Devil's  Bridge."  Perhaps  I  should 
say  bridges,  for  there  are  surely  two  of  them,  and  though  only 
the  smaller  one  is  attributed  to  his  Satanic  Majesty,  it  is  prob- 
ably by  the  newer,  safer,  and  more  orthodox  one  that  Satan 
nowadays,  like  a  prudent  devil,  prefers  to  cross.  The  legend 
of  this  celebrated  bridge  is  extraordinary. 

Some  centuries  ago,  the  mayor  of  the  canton  was  one  day 
in  despair  because  the  mountain  torrent  had  swept  off  every 
bridge  he  had  constructed 
here.  In  his 


SWITZERLAND 


169 


vexation   he    was   rash    enough   to    use 

the  name  of  the  Devil,  as  some  people 

will.    Hardly  had  he  uttered  the  word, 

when  his  door-bell  rang,  and  his  servant 

brought  him  a  card,  on  which  he  read 

the  words,  "  Monsieur  Satan." 

"Show   him   in,"   said   the   mayor. 

A  gentleman  in  black  made  his  appear- 
ance, and  seated  himself  in  an  armchair. 

The  mayor  placed  his  boots  upon  the 

fender;    the  Devil  rested  his  upon  the 

burning    coals.       The    subject    of    the 

bridge    was    broached,   and    the   mayor 

•finally  offered  the  Devil  any  sum  that 

the  canton  could  raise,  if  he  would  build 

them    a    bridge   which  would    last    one 

hundred  years.       "Bah!"  said   Satan, 

•"  What  need  have  I  of  money?  "     And 

taking 
with  his  fin- 
gers   a    red- 
hot  coal  from 

the  fire,  he  offered  it  to  his  com- 
panion. The  mayor  drew  back 
aghast.  "  Don't  be  afraid,"  said 
Satan;  and  putting  the  coal  in 
the  mayor's  hand,  it  instantly 
became  a  lump  of  gold.  "Take 
it  back,"  said  the  mayor  sadly; 
"we  are  not  talking  now  of 
politics !  "  "  You  see, ' '  said  the 
Devil,  with  a  smile,  "  my  price 
must  be  something  else  than 
money.  If  I  build  this  bridge, 


PEASANT  GIRL 


OF  THE   MANY. 


SWITZERLAND 


I  demand  that  the  first  living  being  that  passes  over  it  shall 
be  mine."  "Agreed!"  said  the  mayor.  The  contract  was 
soon  signed.  "  Aurevoir!  "  said  the  Devil.  "  Au  plaisir!" 
said  the  mayor;  and  Satan  went  his  way. 

Early  next  morning  the  mayor  himself  hurried  to  the  spot, 
eager  to  see  if  Satan  had  fulfilled  his  contract.  The  bridge 
was  completed,  and  there  sat  Satan,  swinging  his  legs  over 
the  stream  and  waiting  for  his  promised  soul.  "What," 
he  exclaimed,  as  he  espied  the  mayor,  "do  you  unselfishly 
resign  your  soul  to  me?  "  "  Not  much,"  replied  the  mayor, 
'  proceeding  to 

untie  a  bag  which 
he  had  brought. 
"What's  that?" 
cried  Satan. 
There  was  a  wild 
yell,  and  instant- 
ly a  big  black 
cat,  with  a  tin 
pan  tied  to  its 
tail,  rushed  over 
the  bridge  as  if 
ten  thousand  dogs  were  after  it.  "  There  is  your  '  first  living 
being,'1  cried  the  mayor.  "Catch  him!"  Satan  was 
furious,  but  acknowledged  that  he  had  been  outwitted  and 
retired, — contenting  himself  with  making  the  air  of  the  ravine 
quite  sulphurous  with  his  remarks  about  home! 

Although  the  St.  Gotthard  may  be  the  grandest  of  all 
Alpine  passes,  the  most  historic  of  them  is  that  of  Mount  St. 
Bernard.  Some  years  ago,  on  the  last  day  of  October,  I  left 
the  village  of  Martigny,  which  is  the  starting-point  for  the 
ascent,  and,  several  hours  later,  as  night  came  creeping  up  the 
Alps,  found  myself  upon  the  famous  pass,  at  a  place  already 
higher  than  our  own  Mt.  Washington,  but  still  two  thousand 


HOSPICE    ST.   BERNARD    AND    LAKE. 


SWITZERLAND 


173 


feet  below  my  destination, — the  monastery.  Through  vari- 
ous causes  our  party  had  been  delayed,  and  now  with  the  ap- 
proach of  night  a  snow-storm  swept  our  path  with  fearful  vio- 
lence. Those  who  have  never  seen  a  genuine  Alpine  storm 
can  hardly  comprehend  its  reckless  fury.  The  light  snow  was 


whirled  and  scattered, 
like  an  ocean  of  spray, 
over  all  things.  A  thou- 
sand needles  of  ice 
seemed  to  pierce  our 
skin.  Drifts  sprang  up 
in  our  path,  as  if  by 
magic.  The  winds 
howled  like  unchained 

demons  through  the  jagged  gorges,  and  a  horrible  feeling 
of  isolation  made  our  hearts  falter  with  a  sickening  sense 
of  helplessness.  As  mine  was  an  October  experience,  I 
shudder  to  think  of  what  a  genuine  winter's  storm  must 
be.  For,  as  it  was,  we  were  all  speedily  numb  with  cold, 


174 


SWITZERLAND 


blinded  by  the  whirling  snow,  and  deafened  by  the  roaring 
wind,  which  sometimes  drowned  our  loudest  shouts  to  one 
another. 

Up  and  still  up  we  rode,  our  poor  mules  plunging  through 
the  snow,  our  fingers  mechanically  holding  the  reins,  which 
felt  like  icicles  within  our  grasp,  our  guides  rubbing  their  well- 
nigh  frozen  hands,  but,  fortunately — most  fortunately — never 
becoming  confused  as  to  the  way. 

At  length  I  saw,  or  thought  I  saw,  through  the  blinding 
snow,  one  of  a  group  of  buildings.  I  chanced  to  be  the  fore- 
most in  our  file  of  snow-bound  travelers,  and  shouting,  "Here 
it  is  at  last,"  I  hastened  toward  the  structure.  No  light  was 
visible.  No  voice  responded  to  my  call  for  help.  I  pounded 
on  the  door  and  called  again.  No  answer  came;  but  at  that 


A    SWISS  OSSUARY. 


moment  I  felt  my  arm  grasped  roughly  by  my  guide.  "In 
Heaven's  name,"  he  said,  "do  not  jest  on  such  a  night  as 
this." 


SWITZERLAND 


175 


"Jest!"  I  rejoined,  with  chattering  teeth,  "I  have  no  wish 
to  jest  —  I  am  freezing.  Where  is  the  boasted  hospitality 
of  your  lazy  monks?  Shout!  Wake  them  up!" 

"  They  will 
not  wake,"  re- 
plied the  guide. 
"Why  not?" 
I  cried ;  and 
beating  the 
door  again,  I 
called  at  the 
top  of  my  voice: 
"Au  secours! 
R£veillez-vous ! 
Are  you  all  dead 
in  here?" 

"Yes,"  re- 
plied the  guide. 

It  was  now 
my  turn  to  stare 

at  him.      "What  do  you  mean?"  I  faltered.       "What — what 
does  this  house  contain?"      "Corpses,"  was  the  reply. 

It  was  clear  to  me  in  a  moment.  I  had  mistaken  the  dead- 
house  for  the  house  of  shelter!  In  fancy  I  could  see  the 
ghastly  spectacle  within,  where  bones  of  travelers  whiten  on 
through  centuries  in  an  atmosphere  whose  purity  defies  decay. 

But,  almost  simultaneously  with  his  other  words,  I  heard 
my  guide  exclaim  :  "If  you  too  would  not  join  their  number, 
en  avant,  en  avant,  vite,  vite!"  Then,  seizing  the  bridle  of 
my  mule,  he  urged  me  toward  the  monastery.  A  few  mo- 
ments more  and  we  arrived  within  its  sheltering  walls.  One 
of  the  brothers  helped  me  to  dismount,  and  led  me  up  the 
stone  steps  of  the  Hospice.  And  then,  how  blessed  was  our 
reception!  How  warm  the  fire  blazing  on  the  ample  hearth! 


A   CORRIDOR   IN   THE   HOSPICE. 


SWITZERLAND 


DOGS   OF    ST.  BERNARD. 


How  good  the  hot  soup 
and  wine  instantly  brought 
us  by  the  kind  friars !  How 
comforting  the  thought  of 
our  surroundings,  as  the 
baffled  storm  beat  against 
the  frost  -  covered  win- 
dows, and  seemed  to  shriek 
with  rage  at  being  cheated 
of  its  victims! 

Never,  while  memory 
lasts,  shall  I  cease  to  re- 
member with  love  and 
gratitude  those  noble- 
hearted  brothers  of  the 
St.  Bernard. 
Next  morning  the  storm  had  cleared  away;  yet  even  in 

pleasant  weather  it  is  difficult  to  imagine  anything  more  dreary 

than  the  situation  of  this  monastery,  locked  thus  in  snow  and 

ice,    and    sentineled    by    savage   peaks,    eight    thousand    feet 

above     the     sea. 

Even    the    pond 

adjoining     it     is 

gloomy  from   its 

contrast     to     all 

other  lakes.      Its 

waters    are     too 

cold    for   any 

kind  of  fish,  and 

therefore   fail   to 

attract    hither 

any  kind  of  bird. 

Animal    life    has 

fallen  off  in  mak- 


ST.  BERNARD. 


SWITZERLAND 


177 


ing  the  ascent.     Man  and  the  dog  alone  have  reached  the 
summit. 

It  was  with  admiration  that  I  looked  upon  the  self-sacrifi- 
cing heroes  who  reside  here.  What  praise  can  be  too  high  for 
these  devoted  men,  who  say  farewell  to  parents  i  a  n  d  t  o 
friends,  and  leave  the  smiling  vales  of  Switzer- 
Italy  to  live  upon  this  glacial  height?  F 
can  endure  the  hardship  and  exposure 
ation  longer  than  eight  years,  and  then,  w 
health,  they  return  (perhaps  to  die) 
to  the  milder  climate  of  the  valleys. 
During  the  long  winter  which  binds 
them  here  with  icy  chains  for 
nine  months  of  the  year,  they  .-< 
give  themselves  to  the  noble 

iiH 

work  of  rescuing,  often  amid 
terrible  exposure,  those  who 
are  then  obliged  to  cross  the 
pass.  In  this  they  are  aided 
by  their  famous  dogs,  which, 
like  themselves,  shrink  from  no 
danger,  and  in  their  courage 
and  intelligence  rival  the  masters 
they  so  bravely  serve.  The  travel- 
ers whom  they  receive  in  winter 
are  not  the  rich,  whose  heavy  purses 
might  recompense  them  for  their 
toil.  They  are  mostly  humble  peasants,  unable  to  give  more 
compensation  than  the  outpouring  of  a  grateful  heart.  But 
there  will  come  a  day  when  these  brave  men  will  have  their 
full  reward ;  when  He,  who  with  unerring  wisdom  weighs 
all  motives  and  all  deeds,  will  say  to  them:  "Inasmuch  as 
ye  have  done  it  unto  one  of  the  least  of  these  my  brethren, 
ye  have  done  it  unto  Me." 


OLD   CITY   GATE,  BASLE. 


1 78  SWITZERLAND 

One  of  the  most  attractive  of  all  the  pleasure  resorts  in 
Switzerland  is  the  lovely  Vale  of  Chamonix.  The  first  view 
one  obtains  of  it,  in  coming  over  the  mountains  from  Martigny, 
is  superb.  Three  monstrous  glaciers,  creeping  out  from  their 


2L*'^— 


, 


..*- 


CHAMONIX   AND   MOUNT   BLANC. 


icy  lairs,  lie  beneath  ice-fringed  but- 
tresses of  snow,  like  glittering  serpents 
watching  for  a  favorable  chance  to 
seize  and  swallow  their  prey.  Looking 
across  the  valley  at  them,  it  is  true,  they 
seem  quite  harmless;  but  in  reality,  such 
glaciers  are  the  mighty  wedges  which  have 
i  for  ages  carved  these  mountains  into  shape,  and  are 
still  keeping  them  apart  in  solitary  grandeur.  What  from  a 
distance  seems  a  little  bank  of  snow  is  probably  a  wall  of  ice, 
one  hundred  feet  in  height.  What  look  like  wrinkles  are 
crevasses  of  an  unknown  depth ;  and  the  seeming  puff  of  smoke 
which  one  at  times  discerns  upon  them,  is  really  a  tremendous 


SWITZERLAND 


181 


avalanche  of  snow  and  ice. 
Of  the  three  glaciers  which 
descend  into  the  Vale  of 
Chamonix,  the  one  most 
frequently  visited  by  tourists 
is  the  Mer  de  Glace.  It  is 
well  called  the  "Sea  of  Ice, " 
for  its  irregular  surface  looks 
precisely  like  a  mass  of  toss- 
ing waves  which  have  been 
crystallized  when  in  their 
wildest  agitation.  To  right 
and  left,  the  ice  is  partially 
concealed  by  rocks  and 
earth,  which  have  been 
ground  off  from  the  adjacent 

mountain-sides,  or  which  have  fallen  there,  as  the  result    of 

avalanches.     Sometimes  huge  boulders  are  discernible,  tossed 

here  and  there  like  nut-shells, 

the  rocky  debris  of  ages. 
What    is    there    more 

suggestive    of   mysterious 


.rf 

APPALLING    PRECIPICES. 


I  82 


SWITZERLAND 


power  than  a  frozen  cataract  like  this?  Apparently  as  cold 
and  motionless  as  death,  it  nevertheless  is  moving  downward 
with  a  slow,  resistless  march,  whose  progress  can  be  accurately 

traced  from 
day  to  day ; 
so  accurately, 
indeed,  that 
objects  lost 
to-day  in  one 
of  these  cre- 


confidently 
looked  for  at 
the  glacier's 
terminus  after 
a  certain  num- 
ber of  years. 
Forever  nour- 
ished on  the 


FROZEN   CATARACTS. 


heights,     for- 
ever wasting  in   the  valleys,   these  glaciers   are   the  moving 
mysteries  of  the  upper  world ;   vast,  irresistible,  congealed  pro- 
cessions, —  the   frozen   reservoirs  of  rivers  that  glide  at  last 
from  their  reluctant  arms  in  a  mad  haste  to  reach  the  sea. 

"  Perennial  snow,  perennial  stream, 
Perennial  motion,  all  things  seem; 
Nor  time,  nor  space  will  ever  show 
The  world  that  was  an  hour  ago." 

When   we   examine    any   portion   of    a    glacier's    surface, 
we  find  abundant  evidence  of  its  motion.      It  has  been  forced 


SWITZERLAND 


183 


CROSSING    A    GLACIER. 


into     a     million 

strange,   distort- 
ed shapes,  many 

of     which     are 

larger    than    the 

grandest    cathe- 
drals    man     has 

ever     framed. 

Between      them 

are  vast  chasms 

of     unknown 

depth.       As    it 

descends      thus, 

inch     by     inch, 

obedient   to  the 

pressure      from 

above,  it  flings  its  frigid  waves  to  the  right  and  left,  close  to 

the  orchards  and  the  homes  of  man.  It  is  the  ghastly  syn- 
onym of  death 
in  life;  for  here 
a  man  may  swing 
the  scythe  or 
gather  flowers, 
while  a  hundred 
yards  away  his 
brother  may  be 
perishing  in  a 
crevasse ! 

To  really 
understand  a 
glacier  one  must 
venture  out 
upon  its  icy 
flood.  One  day 


A    PERILOUS    SEAT. 


1 84 


SWITZERLAND 


while  on  the  Mer  de  Glace,  I  was  (as  usual  in  such  expeditions) 
preceded  and  followed  by  a  guide,  to  both  of  whom  I  was 
attached  by  a  stout  rope.  On  that  occasion  one  thing  im- 
pressed me  greatly.  It  was  a  strange  sound,  called  by  the 
guides  "brullen,"  or  growling,  which  is  in  reality  the  mys- 
terious moaning  of  the  glacier,  caused  by  the  rending  asunder 
of  huge  blocks  of  ice  in  its  slow,  grinding  descent. 

At  times  it  seemed  to  me  impossible  to  proceed,  but  the 
experienced  guide  who  led  the  way  laughed  at  my  fears;  and 
finally,  to  increase  my  confidence,  actually  entered  one  of  the 
appalling  caverns  of  the  glacier,  which  like  the  jaws  of  some 
huge  polar  bear,  seemed  capable  of  closing  with  dire  conse- 
quences. For  a  few  minutes  he  re- 
mained seated  beneath  a  mass  of 
over-  hanging  ice,  apparent- 
ly as  calm  as  I  was 
apprehensive  for 
his  safety.  No 
accident  oc- 
curred, and 
yet  my  fears 
were  not  un- 
founded-. For 
though  there 
is  a  fascination 
in  thus  ventur- 
ing beneath 
the  frozen  bil- 
lows of  a  glac- 
ier, there  may 
be  treachery  in 
its  siren  love- 
liness. Huge 
___ blocks  of  ice 

IRRESISTIBLE   CONGEALED   PROCESSIONS. 


SWITZERLAND 


187 


MONT   BLANC   FROM   CHAMONIX. 


frequently  fall 
without  the 
slightest  warn- 
ing, and  many  a 
reckless  tourist 
has  thus  been 
killed,  or  per- 
haps maimed  for 
life. 

On  entering 
the  little  town 
of  Chamonix, 
the  tourist  sees 
in  front  of  one 
of  the  hotels  a 
group  in  bronze 
that  rivets  his  attention  and  awakens  thought.  It  represents 
the  famous  guide,  Balmat,  who  first  ascended  Mont  Blanc  in 
1786,  enthusiastically  pointing  out  the  path  of  victory  to  the 

Swiss  scientist,  De  Saussure,  who 
had  for  years  been  offering  a  re- 
ward to  any  one  who  should  dis- 
cover a  way  to  reach   the   summit. 
The   face   of    the   brave  con- 
queror of  Mont  Blanc  and  that 
of    the   distinguished    scholar 
are  both  turned   toward 
the  monarch  of  the  Alps. 
Instinctively  the  traveler 
also  looks  in  that  direc- 
tion. 

It  is  a  memorable 
moment  when  one  gazes 
for  the  first  time  upon 


188 


SWITZERLAND 


Mont  Blanc.  We  understand  at  once  the  reason  for  its 
being  called  preeminently  the  "White  Mountain."  The 
title  was  bestowed  upon  it  because  of  the  magnificent  snow- 
white  mantle  which  it  wears,  at  a  height  of  almost  sixteen 
thousand  feet.  Probably  no  other  mountain  in  the  world 
has  so  towered  up  on  the  horizon  of  our  imaginations.  Long 
before  we  have  actually  seen  it,  we  have  repeated  Byron's 

words : 

"Mount  Blanc  is  the  monarch  of  mountains; 

They  crowned  him  long  ago, 
On  a  throne  of  rocks,  in  a  robe  of  clouds, 
With  a  diadem  of  snow." 

At  once  a  strong  desire  seizes  us  to  explore  those  bound- 
less fields  of  crystal  clearness,  and  yet  we  shrink  from  all  the 
toil  and  danger  thus  involved.  But,  suddenly,  as  our  gaze 
returns  to  earth,  we  find  a  means  of  making  the  ascent  with- 
out fatigue  —  the  telescope! 

The  placard  suspended  from  it  tells  us  that  some  tourists 
are  actually  struggling  toward  the  summit.  The  chances  are 
that  they  will  return  in  safety;  for  the  ascent  of  Mont  Blanc, 
which  Balmat  made  with  so  much  difficulty,  has  now  been 
reduced  to  a  system.  Yet  after  all,  this  Alpine  climbing 
is  a  dangerous  business.  It  is  pathetic,  for  example,  to 


SWITZERLAND 


189 


recall  the  fate  of  poor  Balmat  himself.  Despite  his  long 
experience,  even  he  lost  his  life  at  last  by  falling  over  a  preci- 
pice. Only  his  statue  is  in  Chamonix;  his  body  lies  in  an 
immense  abyss, 
four  hundred 
feet  in  depth, 
where  falling 
masses  of  rock 
and  ice  are  con- 
stantly increas- 
ing his  vast 
mausoleum,  and 
the  continual 
thunder  of  the 
avalanche  seems 
like  the  moun- 
tain's exulta- 
tion at  its  con- 
queror's de- 
struction. 

Availing  ourselves  of  the  telescope,  we  watch  with  ease 
and  comfort  the  actual  climbers  on  Mont  Blanc.  By  this 
time  they  have  bound  themselves  together  with  a  rope,  which 
in  positions  of  peril  is  the  first  requisite  of  safety.  For 
one  must  always  think  of  safety  on  these  mountains.  With 
all  their  beauty  and  grandeur,  they  have  sufficient  capability 
for  cruelty  to  make  the  blood  run  cold.  They  have  no  mercy 
in  them ;  no  sympathy  for  the  warm  hearts  beating  so  near 
their  surfaces.  They  submit  passively  to  conquest,  so  long  as 
man  preserves  a  cool  head  and  sure  footing.  But  let  him 
make  one  false  step;  let  his  brain  swim,  his  heart  fail,  his  hand 
falter,  and  they  will  hurl  him  from  their  icy  slopes,  or  tear 
him  to  pieces  on  their  jagged  tusks,  while  in  the  roar  of  the 
avalanche  is  heard  their  demoniac  laughter. 


CLIMBERS    IN    SIGHT. 


190 


SWITZERLAND 


But  following  the  tourists  still  farther  up  the  mountain, 
we  look  with  dismay  at  one  of  the  icy  crests  along  which 
they  must  presently  advance.  Not  a  charming  place  for  a 
promenade,  truly!  Here  it  would  seem  that'  one  should  use 
an  alpen-stock  rather  as  a  balancing-pole  than  as  a  staff. 
It  is  enough  to  make  even  a  Blondin  falter  and  retire.  For, 
coated  with  a  glare  of  ice,  and  bordered  on  either  side  by  an 
abyss,  the  slightest  misstep  would  inevitably  send  one  shoot- 
ing down  this  glittering  slope  to  certain  death  in  one  of  the 
vast  folds  of  Mont  Blanc's  royal  mantle. 

Lifting  now  the  telescope  a  little  higher,  we  note  another 
difficulty  which  mountain-climbers  frequently  encounter. 
For  here  they  have  come  face  to  face  with  a  perpendicular 
wall  of  ice  which  they  must  climb,  or  else  acknowledge  a 
defeat.  The  bravest,  therefore,  or  the  strongest,  cuts  with 
his  ax  a  sort  of  stairway  in  this  crystal  barrier,  and,  making 
his  way  upward  by  this  perilous  route,  lowers  a  rope  and  is 
rejoined  by  his  companions.  Imagine  doing  this  in  the  teeth 
of  such  wind  and  cold  as  must  often  be  met  with  on  these  crests! 


« 


ALPINE    PERILS. 


THE  WEISSBACH. 


SWITZERLAND 


193 


AN    ICE   WALL. 


Think  of  it, 
when  a  gale  is 
tearing  off  the 
upper  snow, 
and  driving  it 
straight  into 
the  face  in 
freezing  spray 
like  a  shower  of 
needles ;  when 
the  gloves  are 
coated  with  ice, 
and  alpen- 
stocks  slide 
through  them, 
slippery  as  eels ; 

and  when  the  ice-bound  rocks  tear  off  the  skin  from  the  half- 
frozen  fingers  of  the  man  who  clings  to  them  for  life ! 

I  know  it  is  customary  now  to  laugh  at  any  dangers  on 
Mont  Blanc;  and  yet  a  terrible  disaster  took  place  there  no 
longer  ago  than  1870. 

In  the  month  of  September  of  that  year,  a  party  of  eleven 
(including  two  Americans)  started  to  climb  the  mountain. 
Near  the  summit  a  frightful  tempest  burst  upon  them.  The 
guides  no  longer  recognized  the  way,  and,  unable  to  return  or 
find  shelter,  the  entire  party  perished.  The  bodies  of  five 
were  recovered.  In  the  pocket  of  one  of  them  (an  American 
from  Baltimore)  were  found  these  words,  written  to  his  wife: 
"  7th  of  September,  evening.  We  have  been  for  two  days 
on  Mont  Blanc  in  a  terrific  hurricane.  We  have  lost  our  way, 
and  are  now  at  an  altitude  of  fifteen  thousand  feet.  I  have 
no  longer  any  hope.  We  have  nothing  to  eat.  My  feet  are 
already  frozen,  and  I  have  strength  enough  only  to  write 
these  words.  Perhaps  they  will  be  found  and  given  to  you. 


194 


SWITZERLAND 


Farewell;  I  trust 
that  we  shall 
meet  in  heaven!" 
But  such  a 
mountain  as 
Mont  Blanc  can 
rarely  be  ascend- 
ed in  a  single 
day.  Two  days 
are  generally 
given  to  the  task. 
On  the  evening 
of  the  first  day 
itswould-be  con- 
querors reach, 
at  a  height  of 

ten  thousand  feet,  a  desolate  region  called  the  Grands  Mulcts. 

Here   on   some   savage-looking   rocks   are   two   small   cabins. 

One  is  intended  for  a  kitchen,  the  other  for  a  sleeping-room; 


HUTS   OF   SHELTER  ON    MONT   BLANC. 


WHERE   SEVERAL  ALPINE 
CLIMBERS    REST. 


SWITZERLAND 


195 


that  is,  if  one 
can  sleep  in  such 
a  place ;  for  what 
an  excitement 
there  must  be  in 
passing  a  night 
at  this  great  alti- 
tude! The  dis- 
tant stars  gleam 
in  the  frosty  air 
with  an  unwont- 
ed brilliancy  and 
splendor.  The 

wind  surges  against  the  cliffs  with  the  full,  deep  boom  of  the 
sea;  while  the  silence  in  the  unmeasurable  space  above  is  awe- 
inspiring. 

But,  on  the  morrow,  the  glorious  view   repays  one  for  a 
night  of  sleeplessness.     At  first  one  looks  apparently  upon  a 

shoreless   ocean, 


5EA  OF  CLOUDS. 


CAVERNOUS  JAWS. 


whose  rolling 
billows  seem 
now  white,  now 
opalescent,  in 
the  light  of 
dawn.  Then, 
one  by  one,  the 
various  moun- 
tain peaks  ap- 
pear like  islands 
rising  from  the 
sea.  At  last, 
these  waves  of 
vapor  sink  slow- 
ly downward 


196  SWITZERLAND 

through  the  valleys,  and  disappear  in  full  retreat  before  the 
god  of  day.  But  till  they  vanish,  the  traveler  could  suppose 
that  he  had  here  survived  the  deluge  of  the  world,  and  was 
watching  its  huge  shrouded  corpse  at  his  feet. 

Between  the  Grands  Mulcts  and  the  summit,  Mont  Blanc 
makes  three  tremendous  steps,  from  eight  hundred  to  one 
thousand  feet  in  height,  and  between  these  are  several  fright- 
ful chasms,  so  perilous  that  on  beholding  them  we  catch  our 
breath.  There  is  something  peculiarly  horrible  in  these  cre- 
vasses, yawning  gloomily,  day  and  night,  as  if  with  a  never- 
satisfied  hunger.  A  thousand — nay  ten  thousand — men  in 
their  cavernous  jaws  would  not  constitute  a  mouthful.  They 
are  even  more  to  be  dreaded  than  the  avalanche ;  for  the  path 
of  the  avalanche  is  usually  known ;  but  these  crevasses  fre- 
quently hide  their  black  abysses  under  deceitful  coverlets  of 
snow,  luring  unwary  travelers  to  destruction.  Nevertheless 
the  avalanche  is  in  certain  places  an  ever-present  danger. 
Mountains  of  snow  stand  toppling  on  the  edge  of  some  stu- 
pendous cliff,  apparently  waiting  merely  for  the  provocation 
of  a  human  voice,  intruding  on  their  solitude,  to  start  upon 
their  awful  plunge.  The  world  well  knows  the  fate  of  those 

who  have  ^ been  caught  in 

such  a  tor-  ^^^  _/^.  "^\rent  of  de- 

struc-     ^r  ^X.      tion. 


BASLE:  THE  BRIDGE  AND 
CATHEDRAL, 


A  BRIDGE  OF  ICE, 


SWITZERLAND  199 

"No  breath  for  words!  no  time  for  thought!  no  play 
For  eager  muscle!  guides,  companions,  all 
O'ermastered  in  the  unconquerable  drift, 
In  Nature's  grasp  held  powerless,  atoms 
Of  her  insensate  frame,  they  fared  as  leaves 
In  the  dark  rapid  of  November  gales, 
Or  sands  sucked  whirling  into  fell  simooms; 
One  gasp  for  breath,  one  strangled,  bitter  cry, 
And  the  cold,  wild  snow  closed  smothering  in, 
And  cast  their  forms  about  with  icy  shrouds, 
And  crushed  the  life  out,  and  entombed  them  there, — 
Nobler  than  kings  Egyptian  in  their  pyramids, 
Embalmed  in  the  mountain  mausoleum, 
And  part  of  all  its  grand  unconsciousness 
Forever. 

Its  still  dream  resumed  the  Mount; 
The  sun  his  brightness  kept;  for  unto  them 
The  living  men  are  naught,  and  naught  the  dead, 
No  more  than  snows  that  slide  or  stones  that  roll." 

Finally,    these    and    all    other    dangers   being    past,    the 
wearied  but  exultant  climbers  reach  the  summit  of  Mont  Blanc, 


2OO 


SWITZERLAND 


— that  strangely  silent,  white,  majestic  dome,  so  pure  and 
spotless  in  its  lofty  elevation  beneath  the  stars.  To  watch  this 
scene  from  the  Vale  of  Chamonix,  when  the  great  sovereign  of 
our  solar  system  sinks  from  sight,  leaving  upon  Mont  Blanc  his 
crown  of  gold,  is  an  experience  that  will  leave  one  only  with 
one's  life.  The  concentrated  refulgence  on  that  solitary  dome 
is  so  intense  that  one  is  tempted  to  believe  that  the  glory  of 
a  million  sunsets,  fading  from  all  other  summits  of  the  Alps, 
has  been  caught  and  imprisoned  here.  We  know  that  sun 
will  rise  again ;  but  who,  in  such  a  place,  can  contemplate  un- 
moved the  death  of  Day? 

"The  night  has  a  thousand  eyes, 

And  the  day  but  one; 
Yet  the  light  of  the  bright  world  dies, 
With  the  dying  sun! 

The  mind  has  a  thousand  eyes, 

And  the  heart  but  one; 
Yet  the  light  of  a  whole  life  dies, 

When  love  is  done." 


NTAIN   CLIMBERS. 


SWITZERLAND 


2OI 


One  singular  experience  of  Alpine  travel  is  indelibly  im- 
pressed upon  my  memory.  It  occurred  on  my  passage  of  the 
Gemmi  into  the 
valley  of  the 
Rhone.  The 
Gemmi  Pass  is 
no  magnificent 
highway  like 
the  St.  Gott- 
hard,  macadam- 
ized and  smooth 
and  carefully 
walled  in  by 
parapets  of 
stone.  It  is  for 
miles  a  rough 
and  dangerous 
bridle-path,  the 
edge  of  which 

is  sometimes  decorated  with  a  flimsy  rail,  but  often  has  not 
even  that  apology  for  safety.  One  can  thus  readily  believe 
that,  like  the  Jordan,  the  Gemmi  is  emphatically  "a  hard 
road  to  travel."  At  all  events  I  found  it  so,  especially  as  I 
crossed  it  early  in  the  season,  before  the  winter's  ravages  had 

been  repaired. 
Since  I  was  at 
the  time  suffer- 
ing from  a  tem- 
porary lameness, 
I  could  walk  but 
little.  With 
this  road  dates 
my  first  acquaintance  with  a  mule, —  an  intimacy  that  will 
never  be  forgotten!  All  day  long  that  memorable  beast 


THE    BIRTH-PLACE   OF   AVALANCHES. 


MOUNTAIN   MULES. 


202 


SWITZERLAND 


would  never  for  one  instant  change  his  gait,  nor  was  the 
monotony  of  his  dreadful  walk  once  broken  by  a  trot.  My 
only  consolation  was  in  the  thought  that  if  the  beast  did  change 
it,  my  neck,  as  well  as  the  monotony,  would  probably  be 
broken.  Thus,  hour  after  hour,  I  kept  moving  on  and  up, 
my  knees  forced  wide  apart  by  this  great,  lumbering  wedge, 
until  I  felt  like  a  colossal  wish-bone,  and  as  though  I  should 
be  bow-legged  for  the  rest  of  my  life. 

Nor  was  this  all ;   for,  as  the  day  wore  on,  the  mule  took 

special  pains  to  make  my 
blood  run  cold  by  a  variety 
of  acrobatic  feats,  which 
might  have  made  a  cham- 
ois faint  with  vertigo. 
For  example,  wherever  a 
rail  was  lacking  in  the  crazy 
fence,  he  would  deliberately 
fill  the  space  with  his  own 
body  and  mine,  walking  so 
dangerously  near  the  brink, 
that  half  my  form  would  be 
suspended  over  the  abyss! 
Of  course,  the  moment  it 
was  passed,  I  laughed  or 
scolded,  as  most  travelers 
do;  yet,  after  all,  in  such  cases  we  never  know  how  great  the 
peril  may  have  been.  A  little  stone,  a  clod  of  earth,  a  move- 
ment in  the  nick  of  time  —  these  are  sometimes  the  only 
things  which  lie  between  one  and  the  great  Unknown,  and 
hinder  one  from  prematurely  solving  the  mysterious  problem 
of  existence. 

Nevertheless,  on  the  fearful  precipices  for  which  the 
Gemmi  is  noted,  one  may  be  pardoned  for  being  a  trifle  nerv- 
ous. At  certain  points  the  bridle-path  so  skirts  the  chasm 


A    FRAIL    PARAPET. 


SWITZERLAND 


203 


UP  AMONG  THE   CLOUDS. 


that    one    false 

step  would   land 

the  fragments  of 

your  body  on  the 

rocks  a  thousand 

feet  below;  while, 

on  the  other  side, 

the    mountain 

towers  up  abrupt 

and    bare,    with 

scarce  a  shrub  or 

tree   to   cling  to 

or     console     the 

dizzy    traveler. 

My   flesh   creeps 

now  to  think  of 

some  of  these  places;  and  in  the  same  space  of  time  I  think  I 

never  repented  of  so  many  sins,  as  during  that  passage  of  the 

Gemmi.  At 
length,  however, 
the  climax 
seemed  reached ; 
for  at  the  brink 
of  one  abyss  the 
path  appeared 
to  end.  I  cau- 
tiously advanced 
to  the  edge  and 
looked  over.  It 
was  a  fearful 
sight,  for  here 
the  mountain 
falls  away  to  a 
sheer  depth  of 


ON   THE    GEMMI. 


2O4 


SWITZERLAND 


sixteen  hundred  feet,  and  the  plumb-line  might  drop  to  that 
full  length  without  encountering  any  obstacle. 

When  Alexander  Dumas  came  to  this  place,  and  (unpre- 
pared for  what  he  was  to  see)  looked  down  from  the  brink  of 
the  stupendous  precipice,  he  fell  back  unconscious;  and  after- 
ward, while  making  the  descent,  his  teeth  so  chattered  with 
nervousness,  that  he  placed  his  folded  handkerchief  between 

them.  Yet 
when,  on  reach- 
ing the  valley, 
he  removed  it, 
he  found  it  had 
been  cut  through 
and  through  as 
with  a  razor.  I 
cannot,  certain- 
ly, lay  claim  to 
nervousness  like 
that ;  but  I  could 
sympathize  with 
one  of  our  fel- 
low -  country- 
men, against 
whose  name  on 

the  hotel  register  I  next  day  saw  these  words:  "  Thank  God, 
we  don't  raise  such  hills  as  these  in  the  State  of  New  York!" 
At  the  other  side  of  the  Gemmi,  and  almost  at  the  base  of 
these  gigantic  cliffs,  there  lies  a  little  village.  When  I  stood 
on  the  precipice  above  it,  I  thought  that  a  pebble  hurled 
thence  from  my  hand  would  fall  directly  on  its  roofs;  but  in 
reality  their  distance  from  the  cliffs  was  greater  than  it  seemed. 
This  village  is  the  celebrated  Leuk,  whose  baths  have  now 
acquired  a  world-wide  reputation.  Leuk  has,  however,  this 
misfortune :  so  many  strangers  come  here  now  to  bathe,  that 


SWITZERLAND 


205 


PARBOILED    PATIENTS. 


many  of  the  in- 
habitants them- 
selves think  that 
they  can  dis- 
pense with  the 
luxury. 

I  never  shall 
forget  the  baths 
ofLeuk.  Shades 
of  theMermaids ! 
what  a  sight  they 
presented.  In  a 
somewhat  shab- 
by hall,  contain- 
ing great  com- 
partments of  hot 
water,  I  saw  a  multitude  of  heads — long-haired  and  short- 
haired,  light  and  dark,  male  and  female  —  bobbing  about  like 

buoys  adorned  with 
sea-weed.  A  fine 
chance  this  to  study 
physiognomy,  pure 
and  simple.  In  front 
of  these  amphibious 
creatures  were  float- 
ing tables,  upon 
which  they  could 
eat,  drink,  knit, 
read,  and  even  play 
cards  to  pass  away 
the  time.  As  these 
waters  are  chiefly 
used  for  skin  dis- 
eases, one  might 


A    LOW   BRIDGE. 


2O6 


SWITZERLAND 


suppose  that  each  bather  would  prefer  a  separate  room ;  but 
no,  in  this  case  "misery  loves  company."  The  length  of 
time  which  one  must  remain  soaking  in  these  tanks  of  hot 
water  makes  solitary  bathing  unendurable. 

I  asked  one  of  these  heads  how  long  it  had  to  float  here 
daily.      The  mouth  opened  just  above  the  water's  edge  and 
answered:    "  Eight  hours,    Monsieur;   four  before  luncheon, 
and  four  before    dinner;    and,   as    after  each    bath  we   have 
to  spend  an  hour  in  bed,  ten  hours  a  day  are  thus  consumed." 
It  may  seem  incredible,  but  I  assure  the  reader  that  some 
of  these  parboiled  bathers  actually  sleep  while  in  these  tanks. 
I,  myself,  saw  a  head  drooped  backward  as  though  severed 
from  the  body.      Its  eyes  were  closed ;  its  mouth  was  slightly 
open ;  and   from  the  nose  a   mournful  sound  came  forth  at 
intervals,  which  told  me  that  the  man  was  snoring.      Before 
him,  half-supported  by  the  little  table,  half- 
bedraggled  in  the  flood,  was  a  newspaper. 
Bending    over   the    rail,    I    read    the    title. 
Poor  man!     I  no  longer  wondered 
that    he    slept.       Those    who    have 
read  the  ponderous  sheet  will  under- 
stand its  soporific  effect. 
It  was  a  copy  of  the  Lon- 
don Times. 

After  the  baths  of 
Leuk  and  the  stupendous 
precipices  of  the  Gemmi, 
it  is  a  pleasure  to  approach 
a  less  imposing  but  more 
beautiful  part  of  Switzer- 
land, —  Geneva  and  its 
lake.  The  bright,  cream- 
colored  buildings  of  the 
one  present  a  beautiful 


NATIONAL  MONUMENT  -  GENEVA, 


SWITZERLAND 


209 


contrast  to  the 
other's  deep  blue 
waves.  Next  to 
Stockholm  and 
Naples,  Geneva 
has,  I  think,  the 
loveliest  situ- 
ation of  any  city 
in  Europe. 
Curved,  cres- 
cent-like, around 
the  southwest 
corner  of  the  lake,  the  river  Rhone  with  arrowy  swiftness 
cleaves  it  into  two  parts,  thus  furnishing  the  site  for  all  the 
handsome  quays  and  bridges  which  unite  the  various  sections 
of  the  town. 

What  a  surprising  change  has  taken  place  in  the  appear- 
ance of  the  river  Rhone  since  it  first  poured  its  waters  into 


THE   RHONE   AT  GENEVA. 


210 


SWITZERLAND 


Lake  Geneva  at  its  other  extremity,  forty-five  miles  away! 
There  it  is  muddy,  dark,  and  travel-stained  from  its  long  jour- 
ney down  the  valley.  But  here  it  has  become  once  more  as 
pure  as  when  it  left  its  cradle  in  the  glaciers.  Its  sojourn  in 
the  lake  has  given  it  both  beauty  and  increased  vitality ;  and 
as  it  starts  again  upon  its  course  and  darts  out  from  Geneva 
with  renewed  strength  and  speed,  its  waters  are  superbly  blue 
and  clear  as  crystal. 

As  it  emerges  from  the  lake,  a  sharp-pointed  island  con- 
fronts the  rapid 
stream,  as  if 
awaiting  its  ad- 
vance. Its  sta- 
tion here  before 
the  city  resem- 
bles that  of  some 
fair  maid  of 
honor  who  pre- 
cedes a  queen. 
It  is  called  Rous- 
seau's Island,  in 
honor  of  the 
famous  man 
whose  birth  the 
city  claims.  Geneva  certainly  should  be  grateful  to  him,  for 
it  was  he  who  first  made  this  fair  lake  renowned  in  literature, 
and  called  to  it  the  attention  of  the  world.  In  fact,  he  did 
almost  as  much  to  render  famous  this  enchanting  spot,  as 
Scott  did  for  the  region  of  the  Trosachs.  Appropriately, 
therefore,  a  fine  bronze  statue  of  Rousseau  has  been  erected 
on  the  island,  the  figure  looking  up  the  lake,  like  the  presid- 
ing genius  of  the  place. 

One  can  with  both  pleasure  and  profit  spend  a  fortnight  in 
Geneva.      Its  well-kept  and  luxurious  hotels  all  front  upon  the 


. 


ROUSSEAU'S  ISLAND. 


SWITZERLAND 


211 


quays,  and  from  your  windows  there  (as  from  the  Grand  Hotel 
in  Stockholm)  you  look  upon  an  ever-varying  panorama — a 
charming  combination  of  metropolitan  and  aquatic  life. 
Boats  come  and  go  at  frequent  intervals,  accompanied  by  the 

sound  of  music.  The 
long  perspectives  of  the 
different  bridges,  full  of 
animated  life,  afford 


.  . 


perpetual  entertainment ;  while,  in 
dull  weather,  the  attractive  shops, 
in  some  respects  unrivaled  in  the 
whole  of  Europe,  tempt  you,  be- 
yond your  power  to  resist,  to  purchase  music- 
boxes  or  enameled  jewelry.  After  all,  one's  greatest  pleasure 
here  is  to  embark  upon  the  lake  itself.  This  famous  body  of 
water  forms  a  beautiful  blue  crescent,  forty-five  miles  in 
length  and  eight  in  breadth.  Tyndall  declared  that  it  had 
the  purest  natural  water  ever  analyzed;  Voltaire  called  it  the 
"First  of  Lakes;"  Alexander  Dumas  compared  it  to  the 
Bay  of  Naples;  while  Victor  Hugo,  Lamartine,  and  Byron 
have  given  it  boundless  praise  in  their  glowing  verse.  It 
has  been  estimated  that  should  the  lake  henceforth  receive 


212 


SWITZERLAND 


no   further   increase,  while   having  still  the   river 
Rhone  for  its  outlet,  it  would  require  ten  years  to 
exhaust  its  volume.      It  might  be  likened,  there- 
fore, to  a  little  inland 
sea.      In  fact,  a  pretty 
legend    says    that    the 
ocean-deity,  Neptune, 
came  one  day  to    see 
Lake  Leman,  and,  en- 
raptured with  its  fresh 
young  beauty,  gave  to 
it,   on    departing,    his 
likeness  in    miniature. 
Moreover,  it  has  another  charm 
<u^  "  — that  of  historical  association. 

Its  shores  have  been  the  residence  of  men  of  genius.  Both 
history  and  poetry  have  adorned  its  banks  with  fadeless  wreaths 
of  love  and  fame.  Each  hill  that  rises  softly  from  its  waves  is 
crowned  with  some  distinguished  memory.  Byron  has  often 
floated  on  its  surface;  and  here  he  wrote  some  portions  of 
"Childe  Harold,"  which  will  be  treasured  to  the  end  of  time. 


DOGS   AT   WORK — GENEVA. 


SWITZERLAND 


215 


The  poet  Shelley  narrowly  escaped  drowning  in  its  waters. 
At  one  point  Madame  de  Stael  lived  in  exile;  another  saw 
Voltaire  for  years  maintaining  here  his  intellectual  court; 
while  at  Lausanne,  upon  the  memorable  night  which  he 

has  well  described,          Gibbon     concluded 

The 


work, 


and    Fall 


LAUSANNE,  ON   LAKE   GENEVA. 


of  the  Roman  Empire."  But  of  all  portions  of  Lake  Leman, 
that  which  charms  one  most  is  the  neighborhood  of  Montreux 
and  Vevey,  and  the  historic  Castle  of  Chillon.  A  poet's 
inspiration  has  made  this  place  familiar  to  the  world.  No 
English-speaking  traveler,  at  least,  can  look  upon  these  towers, 


2l6 


SWITZERLAND 


rising  from  the  waves,  without  re- 
calling Byron's  "  Prisoner  of  Chil- 
lon,"  and  reciting  its  well-known 
lines: 

"Lake  Leman  lies  by  Chillon's  walls: 
A  thousand  feet  in  depth  below 
Its  massy  waters  meet  and  flow; 
Thus  much  the  fathom-line  was  sent 
From  Chillon's  snow-white  battlement." 

This  time-worn  structure  boasts 
a  thousand  years  of  story  and  ro- 
mance. In  fact,  more  than  a  thou- 
sand years  ago,  Louis  le  Debonnaire 
imprisoned  here  a  traitor  to  his  king. 
Here,  also,  five  centuries  ago,  hundreds  of  Jews  were  tortured, 
and  then  buried  alive,  on  the  infamous  suspicion  of  poisoning 

the    wells    of  ___ Europe.      But 

of  all  ^^^~  ~~^^-^  the 


WHILE  THE   STEAMER  WAITS. 


memories    which    cluster 

round    its   walls    the    most 

familiar  is   that   of   Bonni- 

vard,   the    Swiss    patriot,   who 

languished  for  six  years  in  its 


SWITZERLAND 


217 


dark  dungeon,  till  he  was  released  by  the  efforts  of  his  enthu- 
siastic countrymen.  During  those  gloomy  years  of  captivity 
his  jailers  heard 
from  him  no  cry 
and  no  com- 
plaint, save  when 
some  tempest 
swept  the  lake. 
Then,  when  the 
wind  moaned,  as 
if  in  sympathy, 
around  the  tow- 
ers, and  waves 
dashed  high 
against  the 
walls,  they  could 
distinguish  sobs 


ON  THE    SHORE. 


and   cries,    prov- 
ing that,  when  apparently  alone  with  God,  the  captive  sought 
to  give  his  burdened  soul  relief. 

"Chillon!  thy  prison  is  a  holy  place, 

And  thy  sad  floor  an  altar  —  for  '  t  was  trod 

Until  his  very  steps  have  left  a  trace 

Worn,  as  if  thy  cold  pavement  were  a  sod, 

By  Bonnivard!  —  May  none  those  marks  efface! 
For  they  appeal  from  tyranny  to  God." 

When  finally  his  liberators  burst  into  his  cell,  they  found 
him  pale  and  shadow-like,  still  chained  to  the  column  around 
which  he  had  walked  so  many  years.  A  hundred  voices  cried 
to  him  at  once:  "  Bonnivard,  you  are  free!  "  The  prisoner 
slowly  rose,  and  his  first  question  was:  "And  Geneva?" 
"Free,  also!"  was  the  answer. 

One  night,  some  eighty  years  ago,  a  little  boat  came 
toward  this  castle,  leaving  behind  it  in  its  course  a  furrow 


218 


SWITZERLAND 


CASTLE  OF   CHILLON. 


silvered  by  the  moon.     As  it  reached  the  shore,  there  sprang- 
from  it  a  man  enveloped  in  a  long  black  cloak,  which  almost 

hid  his  feet  from 
view.  A  close 
observer  would 

~>_'_2flifc>    >A_-<v  +.  have  seen,  how- 

ever, that  he 
limped  slightly. 
He  asked  to  see 
the  historic  dun- 
geon, and  lin- 
gered there  an 
hour  alone. 
When  he  had  gone,  they  found  on  the  stone  column  to  which 
Bonnivard  had  been  chained  a  new  name  carved.  The  traveler 
sees  it  there  to- 
day. It  is  the 
name  of  Byron. 
There  is  in 
Switzerland  a 
village  superior 
even  to  Chamo- 
nix  in  grandeur 
of  location, dom- 
inated by  a 
mountain  more 
imposing  even 
than  Mont 
Blanc.  The 
town  isZermatt; 
the  mountain  is 
the  Matterhorn. 
As  we  approach  it,  we  discern  only  a  tiny  part  of  its  environ- 
ment; but  could  we  soar  aloft  with  the  eagle,  and  take  a 


THE    DUNGEON    OF   CHILLOX. 


THE  MATTERHORN  EXACTED   SPEEDY  VENGEANCE. 


SWITZERLAND 


221 


HISTORIC    WATERS. 


bird's-eye  view  of  it,  the  little  village  would  appear  to  have 
been  caught  in  a  colossal  trap  of  rock  and  ice.      There  is,  in 
fact,  no  path  to 
it,  save  over  dan- 
gerous     passes, 
or      through     a 
narrow    cleft    in 
the     encircling 
mountains, down 
which      a     river 
rushes  with  im- 
petuous    fury; 
while,    watching 
over  it,  like  some  divinely-stationed  sentinel,  rises  the  awful 
Matterhorn,  the  most  unique  and  imposing  mountain  of  the 

Alps.  No  view 
can  possibly 
do  it  justice; 
yet,  anticipate 
what  you  will, 
it  is  here  im- 
possible to  be 
disappointed. 
Though  every 
other  object 
of  the  world 
should  fail,  the 
Matterhorn 
must  stir  the 
heart  of  the 
most  u  n  i  m  • 
pressive  trav- 
eler. Not  only  does  its  icy  wedge  pierce  the  blue  air  at  a 
height  of  fifteen  thousand  feet  above  the  sea,  but  its  gaunt, 


ZERMATT. 


222 


SWITZERLAND 


tusk-like  form  emerges  from  the  surrounding  glaciers  with 
almost  perpendicular  sides,  four  thousand  feet  in  height.  It  is 
a  mani-  ^^^^^^^^  festation  of  the  power  of 

the          ^8  ^^W         Deity,  beside  which  all  the 

works  of  man  dwindle 
to    insignificance.       I 
never     grew     accus- 
tomed   to    this,    as 
to  other  mountains. 
No   matter  when   I 
gazed  upon  its  sharp- 
cut  edges  and  its  ice- 
b  o  u  nd 
rocks, 
I  felt,  as 

when    I    first   be- 
held it,  completely 

overpowered  by  its  magnitude.  The  history  of  this  colossal 
pyramid  is  as  tragic  as  its  grim  form  is  awe-inspiring.  The 
mountain  is  known  as  the  "  Fiend  of  the  Alps."  Year  after 


SAFE   FROM 

MOUNTAIN    PERILS. 


FALLS   OF  THB   RHINE,  SCHAFFHAUSEN. 


SWITZERLAND 


223 


THE   FIEND   OF  THE   ALPS. 


year  it  had  been 
luring  to  itself, 
with  fearful  fas- 
cination, scores 
of  brave  men 
who  longed  to 
scale  its  appal- 
ling cliffs.  Over 
its  icy  pedestal, 
— up  its  precip- 
itous sides,  — 
yes,  even  to  its 
naked  shoul- 
ders, baffled 
and  wistful 
mountaineers 

struggled  in  vain.      Upon  its  perpendicular  rocks  several  men 
had  all  but  perished ;  but  the  warnings  were  unheeded.     At 

length,  after  per- 
sistent efforts 
for  eleven  years, 
the  famous  Eng- 
lish mountain- 
climber,  Whym- 
per,  gained  the 
summit.  But  in 
return  for  the 
humiliation  of 
this  conquest  the 
Matterhorn  ex- 
acted speedy 
vengeance. 

As  the   suc- 
cessful    party, 


MOONLIGHT  ON  THE   MATTERHORN. 


224 


SWITZERLAND 


consisting  of  four  Englishmen  and  three  guides,  elated  by 
their  victory,  were  just  beginning  their  descent,  one  of  them 
slipped,  knocking  a  guide  completely  off  his  feet  and  dragging 
his  companions  after  him,  since  all  were  bound  together  by  a 
rope.  Four  of  them  hung  an  instant  there,  head  downward, 
between  earth  and  heaven.  The  other  three  clung  desperately 
to  the  icy  crags,  and 

would  "--  have 


rescued    them,    had    not   the   rope 
between  them  broken.     There  was 
a    fearful    cry — a    rush   of   falling 
bodies.     Then  Whymper  and  two  guides 
found  themselves  clinging  to   the   rocks,  and 
looking  into  each  other's  haggard  faces,  pale  as 
death.     The    others  had    fallen    over   the  precipice  —  nearly 
four  thousand  feet  —  to  the  ice  below ! 

"  One  moment  stood  they,  as  the  angels  stand, 

High  in  the  stainless  eminence  of  air; 
The  next,  they  were  not;  —  to  their  Fatherland 
Translated  unaware!" 


THE    MATTERHORN. 


SWITZERLAND 


227 


On  my  last  evening  at  Zermatt,  I  lingered  in  the  deepen- 
ing twilight  to  say  farewell  to  this  unrivaled  peak.  At  first 
its  clear-cut  silhouette  stood  forth  against  the  sky,  unutter- 
ably grand,  while  darkness  shrouded  its  giant  form.  So 
overwhelming  appeared  its  tapering  height,  that  I  no  longer 
wondered  at  the  belief  of  the  peasants  that  the  gate  of  Para- 
dise was  situated  on  its  summit ;  because  it  seemed  but  a 
step  thence  to  Heaven. 

At  last  there  came  a  change,  for  which  I  had  been  waiting 
with  impatience.  In  the  blue  vault  of  heaven  the  full-orbed 
moon  came  forth  to  sheathe  the  Matterhorn  in  silver.  In  that 
refulgent  light  its  ^^^^^^^^^^  icy  edges  looked 

like  crystal  ^^^^^  5^^^.  ropes;  and 


THE    BERNESE  OBERLAND. 


228 


SWITZERLAND 


its  sharp,  glistening  rocks  resembled  silver  steps  leading  to  the 
stupendous  pinnacle  above.  Never,  this  side  the  shore  of 
Eternity,  do  I  expect  to  see  a  vision  so  sublime  as  that  of 
moonlight  on  the  Matterhorn.  For  from  the  gleaming  parapets 
of  this  Alpine  pyramid,  not  "  forty  centuries,"  but  forty 
thousand  ages  look  down  on  us  as  frivolous  pygmies  of  a  day. 
Yes,  as  I  gazed  on  this  illumined  obelisk,  rising  from  out  its 
glittering  sea  of  ice,  to  where  —  four  thousand  feet  above  — 
the  moving  stars  flashed  round  its  summit  like  resplendent 
gems,  it  seemed  a  fitting  emblem  of  creative  majesty  —  the 
scepter  of  Almighty  God. 


A    SWISS    HERO. 


ATHENS 


A  NATION'S  influence  is  not  dependent  on  its  size. 
Its  glory  is  not  measured  by  square  miles.  Greece  is 
the  smallest  of  all  European  countries,  being  not 
larger  than  the  State  of  Massachusetts.  Yet,  in  the  light  of 
what  a  few  Athenians  accomplished  in  the  days  of  Phidias, 
China's  four  hundred  millions  seem 
like  shadows  cast  by  moving  clouds. 
China  compared  to  Athens!  The 
enlightened  world  could  better  lose 
the  entire  continent  of  Asia  from  its 
history  than  that  little  area.  Better 
fifty  years  of  Athens  than  a  cycle  of 
Cathay.  In  the  historic  catalogue 
of  earth's  great  cities  Athens  stands 
alone.  The  debt  which  civilization 
owes  her  is  incalculable.  For  cen- 
turies Athens  was  the  school  of 
Rome,  and  through  Rome's  con- 
quests she  became  the  teacher  of  the 
world.  If  most  of  her  art  treasures 
had  not  been  torn  from  her,  first  ATHENE. 

to  embellish  Rome,  and  subsequently  to  enrich  the  vari- 
ous museums  of  the  world,  Athens  would  now  be  visited 
by  thousands  instead  of  hundreds.  But  even  in  her  desola- 
tion Athens  repays  a  pilgrimage.  Were  absolutely  nothing 


232 


ATHENS 


of  her  glory  left,  it  would  still  remain  a  privilege  merely  to 
stand  amid  the  scenes  where  human  intellect  reached  a  height 
which  our  material  progress  has  not  equaled.  They  err  who 
say  that  Greece  is  dead.  She  cannot  die.  The  Language  of 
Demosthenes  is  still  extant.  Not  only  are  its  accents  heard 
within  the  shadow  of  the  Parthenon ;  it  is  so  interwoven  with 
our  own,  that  we  unconsciously  make  use  of  its  old  words,  as 
one  walks  on  a  pavement  of  mosaic,  unmindful  whence  its 
pieces  came.  The  Greek  Religion  lives  in  every  statue  of 
the  gods,  in  every  classical  allusion,  in  every  myth  which  poets 
weave  into  the  garland  of  their  song.  What  could  a  sculptor 
do  without  the  gods  and  heroes  of  old  Greek  mythology? 
Hellenic  Architecture  lives  in  every  reproduction  of  Doric 
column  or  Corinthian  capital.  The  Art  of  the  Acropolis 

remains  the 
standard  for  all 
time.  The  His- 
tory of  Greece 


still   gives   to   us  as 
models  of    heroic    pati 

^- ^^•^^^^j^*-— 

otism,  Thermopylae  and  Mara-  thon.    Even 

her  ideas  live, — the  thoughts  of  Phidias  in  marble;  of  Plato  in 
philosophy;  of  Socrates  in  morals;  of  Euripides  and  Sopho- 
cles in  tragedy. 

What,  then,  if  it  be  true  that  Greece  has  greatly  changed 
in  twenty  centuries?     The  influence  of  ancient  Greece  comes 


ATHENS  235 

down  the  ages  to  us  like  the  light  from  a  fixed  star.  The 
star  itself  may  have  gone  out  in  darkness  years  ago;  but 
waves  of  brilliancy  which  left  it  previous  to  its  destruction 
are  traveling  toward  us  still,  and  fall  in  silvery  pulsations  on 
our  earth  to-day.  The  best  way  to  approach  the  shores  of 
Greece  is  over 
the  classic  Medi- 
terranean and 
^Egean  seas . 
Around  these 
oceans  gather 
more  thrilling 
and  inspiring  as- 

THROUGH  GRECIAN  WATERS. 

sociations      than 

cluster  about  any  others  on  the  globe.  Upon  no  equal  area 
of  the  earth's  surface  have  so  many  mighty  events  happened  or 
deeds  been  enacted  as  around  these  inland  seas.  Every  keel 
that  now  cleaves  their  waters  traverses  the  scene  of  some 
maritime  struggle  or  adventure  of  ancient  times,  or  glides  by 
shores  forever  hallowed  to  the  scholar  and  historian  by  the 
memories  of  the  genius  and  grandeur  that  have  passed  away. 
To  sail  on  Grecian  waters  is  to  float  through  history.  The 
seas  of  other  countries  gleam  with  phosphorescence;  hers 
sparkle  with  the  scintillations  of  a  deathless  fame.  The  very 
islands  they  caress  have  been  the  cradles  of  fable,  poesy  and 
history.  From  each  has  sprung  a  temple,  a  statue,  a  poem, 
or  at  least  a  myth,  which  still  exists  to  furnish  joy  and  inspira- 
tion to  the  world. 

It  is  with  the  liveliest  anticipations  of  pleasure  that  one 
who  is  inspired  by  these  memories,  arrives  at  the  port  of 
Athens,  which  still  retains  its  ancient  title, — The  Piraeus.  Its 
appearance  is  not  especially  attractive,  and  yet  I  gazed  upon 
it  with  profound  emotion.  Still  are  its  waves  as  blue  as  when 
Athenian  vessels  rode  at  anchor  here,  or  swept  hence  to  the 


236 


ATHENS 


island  of  Salamis  to  aid  in  the  destruction  of  the  Persian  fleet 
and  cause  the  mad  flight  of  the  terror-stricken  Xerxes. 
Around  them  History  and  Poetry  have  woven  an  immortal 
charm,  for  in  their  limpid  depths  have  been  reflected  the  forms 
of  almost  every  famous  Greek  and  Roman  of  antiquity. 

But  the  Piraeus,  after  all,  is  merely  a  doorway  to  glories 
beyond.  Hence  one  quickly  leaves  the  steamer  here,  and 
hastens  to  the  capital  itself,  six  miles  away.  A  train  of  street- 
cars, drawn  by  a  steam-engine,  was  one  of  the  first  objects 
that  confronted  us  in  the  streets  of  Athens,  but  even  this 
reminder  of  the  nineteenth  century  could  not  dispel  the  fasci- 
nation of  antiquity.  It  all  swept  back  upon  me.  The  loco- 
motive and  the  tram-cars  faded  from  my  view,  and  in  their 
place  I  saw  again  my  school-room,  with  its  rows  of  well-worn 
desks.  Once  more  was  felt  the  summer  breeze,  as  it  stole 
through  the  open  window,  and  lured  me  from  my  lexicon  to 
the  fair  fields.  Xenophon's  graphic  prose  and  Homer's  match- 
less verse  at  last  seemed  real  to  me ;  for  over  the  shop-doors 
were  the  Greek  characters  that  I  had  learned  in  boyhood,  and 

on  the  corners  of 
the  streets  were 
words  once  utter- 
ed by  the  lips  of 
Socrates. 

Even  before 
the  tourist  reach- 
es the  outskirts 
of  the  city  of 
Minerva,  he 
plainly  sees  rising  in  bold  relief  against  the  sky,  what  was 
in  ancient  times  the  gem  of  Athens,  the  casket  of  the 
rarest  architectural  jewels  in  the  world, —  the  temple-crowned 
Acropolis.  It  is  a  memorable  moment  when  one  first 
beholds  it.  No  other  citadel  in  the  world  has  embraced 


THE    DISTANT  CITADEL. 


ATHENS 


237 


so  much  beauty  and  splendor  within  its  walls.  Not  one  has 
witnessed  such  startling  changes  in  the  fortunes  of  its  posses- 
sors. Its  history  reaches  back  over  a  period  of  two  thou- 
sand four  hundred  years.  Wave  after  wave  of  war  and  con- 
quest have  beaten  against  it.  It  has  been  plundered  by  the 

Persian,  the  Spartan,  the  Mace- 
donian,    the     Roman,     the 
Venetian  and  the  Turk. 
Yet    there    is    now   a 
modern  city  at  its  base, 


A  WALK  AROUND  THE  ACROPOLIS. 


astonishingly  new 
and  fresh,  compar- 
ed with  its  historic 
background.  The 
buildings  of  to-day 
and  those  of  two 
thousand  years  ago 

seem  gazing  at  each  other  with  surprise.  Yet  there  is  no  hos- 
tility between  them.  Despite  her  tattered  robes  of  royalty, 
Old  Athens  sits  enthroned  as  the  acknowledged  sovereign. 
New  Athens  kneels  in  reverence  before  her.  For  the  modern 
Greeks  still  cling  with  pride  to  the  memories  of  Pericles  and 
Phidias,  and  sigh  when  they  think  of  the  glory  that  once 
was  theirs. 

A  walk  around  the  Acropolis  reveals  the  fact  that  it  is  a 
natural  mass  of  rock,  built  up  in  places  by  substantial 
masonry.  On  three  sides  it  is  practically  perpendicular. 
Two  thousand  years  ago  its  summit  rose  toward  heaven,  like 


238 


ATHENS 


a  magnificent  altar  consecrated  to  the  gods.  There,  elevated 
in  the  sight  of  all,  and  overlooking  the  adoring  city  on  the 
one  side  and  the  blue  ALgean  on  the  other,  stood  those 
incomparable  specimens  of  architectural  beauty,  grace  and 

majesty,  which 
have  made 
Athens  immor- 
tal. Even  now, 
although  its 
temples  are 
in  ruins,  the 
few  remaining 
columns  of 
the  Parthenon 


stand  out  in 
delicate  relief 
against  the  sky, 
like  strings  of 
an  abandoned 
harp ,  which 
even  the  most 
skilful  hand 
can  never  wake 
again  to  melody. 

In  making  the  ascent  of  this  historic  eminence  by  the 
only  avenue  of  approach,  the  traveler  soon  finds  himself  before 
the  ruined  entrance  to  the  Acropolis, — the  Propylaea.  This 
was  originally  a  majestic  gateway  of  P^ntelic  marble,  crown- 


1HE    PKOfYLJEA. 


ATHENS 


239 


ing  a  marble  staircase  seventy  feet  in  breadth,  which  led  up 
from  the  city  to  the  brow  of  the  Acropolis.  Its  cost  was 
two  and  a  half  millions  of  dollars.  It  was  considered,  in  its 
prime,  equal,  if  not  superior,  to  the  Parthenon.  Nor  is  this 
strange,  for  this  portal  was  a  veritable  gallery  of  art.  Along 
its  steps  were  arranged  those  chiseled  forms  that  almost 
lived  and  breathed  in  their  transcendent  beauty, — the  master- 
pieces of  Praxiteles  and  Phidias,  the  mutilated  fragments  of 
which  we  now  cherish  as  our  most  perfect  models  of  the 
beautiful. 

Yet  there  was  nothing  effeminate  in  this  magnificence. 
Solidity  and  splendor  here  went  hand  in  hand.  When  the 
Propylaea  was  finished,  under  Pericles,  more  than  four  centuries 
were  still  to  pass  before  the  birth  of  Christ ;  yet  so  much  strength 
was  here  combined  with  beauty,  that,  if  no  human  hands  had 
striven  to  deface  it,  its  splendid  shafts  would,  no  doubt, 
still  be  perfect.  The  columns  that  remain  appear  to  stand 
like  sentinels,  guarding  their 

illustrious  past.    It 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  ACROPOLIS. 


240 


ATHENS 


thrills  one  to  reflect  that  these  identical  pillars  have  cast 
their  shadows  on  the  forms  of  Phidias,  Pericles,  Demos- 
thenes, and  indeed  every  Greek  whose  name  has  been  pre- 
served in  history. 

When  I  passed  on  beyond  the  Propylaea,  and  gained  a 
broader  view  of  the  Acropolis,  I  looked  around  me  with 
astonishment.  The  whole 
plateau  is  literally  cover- 
ed with  headless 
statues,  fallen  col- 
umns and  dis- 
jointed capitals. 
Some  of  them 
bear  unfinished 


sentences,  as 
though  these 
blocks  would 
speak,  if  they  were 
properly  restored. 
Their  power  of 
speech,  however, 

has  been  forever  paralyzed  by  the  destructive 
blows  they  have  received.  This  rugged  rock  is 
nevertheless  an  illustrated  volume  of  Greek  history  bound  in 
stone.  Its  letters  are  disfigured,  its  binding  is  defaced,  but 
the  old  volume  is  still  legible;  and  it  assures  us  that  this  tiny 
platform,  scarcely  one  thousand  feet  in  length  'and  four 
hundred  in  breadth,  is  richer  in  some  respects  than  any  other 
portion  of  the  globe,  for  in  the  golden  crucible  of  memory, 


ATHENS 


243 


Art,  History  and  Poetry  transmute  each  particle  of  its  sacred 
dust  into  a  precious  stone. 

It  is,  however,  to  the  highest  point  of  the  plateau  that 
the  tourist's  gaze  turns  with  keenest  interest,  for  there  stood 
what  was  formerly  the  crown  of  the  Acropolis,  the  architec- 
tural glory  of  the  world, — The  Parthenon. 

No  photographic  view  can  do  it  justice.      Pictures   invari- 
ably represent  its  marble  columns  as  dark  and  dingy,  like  the 
sooty    architec- 
ture of  London. 
But   such   is  not 
the     case.      The 
discolorations 
are    so   slight   as 
hardly    to    be 


A    PORTION   OF  THE   FRIEZE. 


blemishes.  The 
general  appear- 
ance of  the  edi- 
fice is  one  of 
snowy  whiteness, 
softly  defined 
against  the  clear, 
blue  sky,  and  I  have  seen  its  columns  in  the  glow  of  sunset 
gleam  like  shafts  of  gold.  But  on  approaching  it  more  closely, 
one  sees  that  nothing  can  conceal  the  ravages  of  time  and  man. 
Yet,  only  two  hundred  years  ago  it  stood  comparatively 
unchanged  in  its  unrivaled  beauty.  The  Turks  were  then  the 
masters  of  this  classic  land.  They  showed  their  appreciation 
of  the  Parthenon  by  using  it  as  a  powder-magazine!  In 
1687  an  army  of  Venetians  recklessly  bombarded  Athens, 
and  one  of  their  shells  exploded  in  this  shrine.  Instantly, 
with  a  wild  roar,  as  though  Nature  herself  shrieked  at  the 
sacrilege,  the  Parthenon  was  ruined.  Columns  on  either  side 
were  blown  to  atoms,  the  front  was  severed  from  the  rear, 


244 


ATHENS 


and  the  entire  hill  was  strewn  with  marble  fragments,  mute 
witnesses  of  countless  forms  of  beauty  lost  to  us  forever. 

One  of  these  fragments  is  a  portion  of  the  frieze  that  once 
surrounded  the  entire  edifice  like  a  long  garland  of  rare  beauty. 
How  careful  were  the  old  Greek  artists  of  their  reputation ; 
how  conscientious  in  their  art!  The  figures  in  this  frieze 
were  fifty  feet  above  the  ground,  where  small  defects  would 


FRONT  VIEW  OF  THE   PARTHENON. 


never  have  been  noticed,  yet  every  part  of  each  was  finished 
with  the  utmost  care.  While  they  remained  there  for  two 
thousand  years,  this  trait  of  old  Greek  character  was  unper- 
ceived;  but,  with  their  downfall  and  removal,  the  sculptor's 
grand  fidelity  to  truth  was  brought  to  light, —  as  death  some- 
times reveals  the  noble  qualities  which  we  in  life,  alas !  have 
not  observed. 

Enough  of  the  Parthenon  remains  to  show  the  literal  per- 
fection of  its  masonry.  It  has,  for  example,  in  its  steps, 
walls,  and  columns,  curves  so  minute  as  to  be  hardly  visible, 
yet  true  to  the  one-hundredth  part  of  an  inch.  They 


ATHENS  245 

show  alike  the  splendid  genius  of  the  architect  and  the  won- 
derful skill  of  the  workmen.  For  all  the  curves  are  mathe- 
matical. The  reasons  for  them  can  be  demonstrated  like  a 
problem  in  geometry.  Once  fifty  life-size  statues  stood  upon 
its  pediments.  Around  it  ran  a  sculptured  frieze,  five  hun- 
dred and  twenty  feet  in  length,  carved  mainly  by  the  hand  of 
Phidias;  while  the  especial  treasure  of  the  temple  was  the 
famous  statue  of  Athene  Parthenos,  made  of  ivory  and  gold. 
The  value  of  the  precious  metal  used  in  this  one  figure  was 
seven  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  dollars. 

It  is  a  marvel  that  any  fragments  can  be  gathered  on  the  top 
of  the  Acrop- 
olis, after  the 
persistent  spoli- 
ation which 
Greece  has  un- 
dergone for  more 
than  eighteen 
centuries.  From 
the  one  city  of 
Delphi  alone  Nero  is  said  to  have  carried  off  to  Rome 
five  hundred  bronze  statues.  How  many  beautiful  works 
in  marble,  gold  and  ivory  he  removed,  we  cannot  tell. 
And  when  the  Roman  conqueror,  ^milius  Paulus,  was  borne 
in  triumph  up  the  Appian  Way,  exhibiting  the  spoils  of  con- 
quered Greece,  there  preceded  him  two  hundred  and  fifty 
wagons  filled  with  the  rarest  pictures  and  statues  of  Greek 
artists,  after  which  came  three  thousand  men,  each  bearing 
some  gold  or  silver  ornament  taken  from  Hellenic  cities.  Yet 
this  was  merely  the  beginning  of  the  plundering,  which  prac- 
tically ended  only  fifty  years  ago,  when  Lord  Elgin  carried 
off  to  London  over  two  hundred  and  fifty  feet  of  the  beauti- 
fully sculptured  frieze  of  the  Parthenon.  Opinions  differ 
in  regard  to  the  propriety  of  this  act  on  the  part  of  Lord 


FRAGMENTS. 


246 


ATHENS 


Elgin.  Defenders  of  his  conduct  urge  that,  had  this  not 
been  done,  these  works  of  art  would  have  been  ruined 
by  the  Turks.  Others  maintain  that  they  would  have 
remained  intact,  and  point  to  some  of  the  comparatively  unin- 
jured decorations  of  the  shrines  of  the  Acropolis,  such  as  the 
Caryatides  of  the  Erectheum,  which  have  at  least  never  been 
injured  by  the  Turks,  though  one  of  them  was  removed  to 


SOME   OF  THE   SPOILS. 


England  by  Lord  Elgin.  At  all  events,  it  would  be  a  noble 
and  graceful  act  on  the  part  of  England  particularly,  and  of 
many  other  countries  also,  to  restore  some  of  her  lost  art-treas- 
ures to  Greece, — now  that  she  has  risen  again  to  the  rank  of  a 
well-governed  and  progressive  nation.  It  is  sad  indeed  to 
see  in  Athens  only  plaster  casts  of  the  incomparable  works  ot 
her  old  sculptors,  the  originals  of  which  enrich  so  many 
European  capitals. 

One  of  the  most  beautiful  of  the  ruined  shrines  of  the 
Acropolis  is  the  "Temple  of  Wingless  Victory;  "  so-called 
because  the  statue  of  the  goddess  was  represented  without 


ATHENS 


247 


wings,  in  the  fond  hope  that  Victory  would  never  fly  away  from 
the  Athenian  capital.  Most  of  the  beautiful  statues  which 
adorned  this  building  were  carried  off  to  the  British  Museum 
seventy  years  ago,  and  some  were  ruined  in  the  process  of 
removal.  One  exquisite  portion  of  the  frieze,  which  had  for 
twenty  centuries  stood  forth  resplendent  over  the  historic  city, 
was  carelessly  dropped  and  broken  into  atoms.  A  Greek  who 
was  standing  near,  watching  this  shameful  devastation,  brushed 
away  a  tear,  and  with  a  sob  exclaimed  pathetically :  ' '  Telos !  ' ' 
(  That  is  the  end  of  it ! )  and  turned  away. 

No  one  has  condemned  the  plunder  of  the  Acropolis  more 
trenchantly  than  Byron,  in  the  lines: 

"  Cold  is  the  heart,  fair  Greece!  that  looks  on  thee, 
Nor  feels  as  lovers  o'er  the  dust  they  loved  ; 
Dull  is  the  eye  that  will  not  weep  to  see 
Thy  walls  defaced,  thy  mouldering  shrines  removed 
By  British  hands,  which  it  had  best  behooved 
To  guard  those  relics  ne'er  to  be  restored. 
Curst  be  the  hour  when  from  their  isle  they  roved, 
And  once  again  thy  hapless  bosom  gored, 
And  snatch'd  thy  shrinking  Gods  to  northern  climes  abhorr'd! " 

Before  the  mental  vision  of  the  traveler,  who  muses  thus 
upon  the  crest  of  the  Acropolis,  there  naturally  rises  the  form 
of  the  goddess  Athene 
(or,  as  the  Romans  called 
her,  Minerva),  who  gave 
the  name  Athens  to  the 
city  which  she  specially 
protected.  Who  can  for- 
get how  this  old  classic 
citadel,  within  whose 
shrines  this  goddess  was 
adored,  remained  for 
many  centuries,  even  in 
its  ruin,  a  beacon  light  of 


THE  CARYATIDES  OF  THE   ERECTHEUM. 


248 


ATHENS 


history?  Its  radiance  pierced  even  the  darkness  of  the  Mid- 
dle Ages,  when,  over-run  by  conquerors,  pillaged  by  bar- 
barians, assailed  by  fanatics,  the  world  of  art  lay  buried 
beneath  the  rubbish  of  brutality  and  ignorance.  Under  the 
blows  of  the  iconoclasts,  the  pulse  of  artistic  life  had  almost 

ceased  to  beat.  But, 
though  the  fire  of 
genius  seemed  ex- 
tinct, there  was  still 
vitality  in  its  dying 
embers.  The  light 
which  came  from  the 
Acropolis  gave  its 
illumination  to  the 
Renaissance.  With- 
out an  Athens  there 
had  been  no  Flor- 
ence; without  a 
Phidias  no  Michael 
Angelo. 

Almost  as  inter- 
esting as  a  visit  to 
the  summit  of  the 
Acropolis  is  a  walk 
around  its  base.  A  part 
of  it  is  lined  with  ruins, 
many  of  them  being  demolished  theatres.  Upon  the  hill 
the  drama  of  the  gods  went  on:  below  it  were  performed 
the  tragedy  and  comedy  of  man.  One  of  these  theatres, 
called  the  Odeon,  was  of  Roman  origin,  built  by  the  con- 
querors of  Greece  when  they  were  masters  of  the  world. 
Its  rows  of  massive  arches,  climbing  one  above  another  up 
the  cliff,  remind  us  of  the  Colosseum.  Above  them  was  the 
classic  Parthenon,  which  Phidias  had  built  five  hundred  years 


PORTAL  OF  THE    ERECTHEUM. 


ATHENS 


251 


before.  This  theatre  could  accom- 
modate eight  thousand  people,  and 
doubtless  was  magnificent  and  im- 
posing; but  amid  such  surroundings 
it  must  have  seemed  to  the  Athe- 
nians like  an  interloper  and  intruder, 
—  a  gilded  fetter  on  a  lovely  slave. 

Vastly  more  interesting,  however, 
than  the  Odeon  is  the  edifice  which 
adjoins  it, —  the  ancient  theater  of 
Bacchus, —  bu'ilt  by  the  Greeks  two 
thousand  four  hundred  years  ago.  It 
was  excavated  from  the  side  of  the 
Acropolis,  just  below  the  Parthenon. 
Its  rows  of  seats  were  partly  sculp- 
tured from  the  solid  rock  and  partly 
built  up  of  Pen- 
telic  marble, 

and    thirty  ATHEN?' 

thousand  people  could  be  seated 
here.  Its  form  was  a  perfect  am- 
phitheatre, a  model  for  all  others 
in  the  world.  How  grand  was  its 
simplicity!  Its  light  was  fur- 
nished by  the  sun.  God  was  the 
painter  of  its  drop-curtain,  which 
was  the  sunset  sky ;  the  scenery 
was  that  of  mountains  and  the 
sea;  its  only  roof  was  the  blue 
dome  of  heaven. 

A  portion  of  the  front  of  the 
old  stage  is  still  intact.  If  the 
old  Greeks  had  needed  footlights, 
they  would  have  placed  them 


252 


ATHENS 


on  this  marble  parapet.  It  sends  the 
blood  in  a  swift  current  to  the  heart  to 
think  that  all  its  kneeling  or  support- 
ing statues  have  listened  to  the  plays 
of  Aristophanes  or  Sophocles,  and 
have  beheld  innumerable  audiences  oc- 
cupying the  marble  seats  which  still 
confront  them.  Alas!  What  have  they 
not  beheld  here  since  those  glorious 
days!  In  this,  the  earliest  home  of 
tragedy,  how  many  tragedies  have 
been  enacted !  Directly  opposite  this 
parapet  is  one  of  the  ancient  marble  seats.  It  was  occupied 
by  an  Athenian  magistrate  more  than  two  thousand  years  ago. 
His  name  is  still  inscribed  upon  it, — perfectly  legible,  and 
defiant  of  the  touch  of  Time.  Standing  in  this  amphitheatre, 
one  realizes  as  never  before,  how,  in  an  epoch  of  great  intel- 
lectual activity,  genius  does 
not  confine  itself  to  one 
particular  line.  Whether  it 
be  the  age  of  Pericles,  the 


AN   ANCIENT  CHAIR. 


ATHENS 


253 


Renaissance,  the  era  of  Elizabeth,  or  the  magnificent  century 
of  the  Moors,  a  wave  of  mental  energy  rolls  over  an  entire 
nation.  Thus  here,  at  Athens,  it  was  not  only  sculpture  that 
attained  such  excellence,  but  painting;  not  only  painting  but 
architecture;  not  only  architecture  but  oratory;  not  only 
oratory  but  phi- 
losophy; and  in 
addition  to  all 
these,  this  won- 
derful city  gave 
mankind  the 
drama,  so  per- 
fect at  the  start 
that  even  the 
modern  world, 
with  all  its  liter- 
ary culture  and 
experience,  re- 
gards the  old 
Greek  drama- 
tists as  its  mas- 
ters. Filled  with 
such  thoughts, 
one  seems  to 
see,  while.linger- 
i  n  g  here,  the 
form  of  Sopho- 
cles, the  greatest  of  Greek  tragic  poets.  For  more  than  two 
thousand  three  hundred  years  his  plays  have  been  admired 
as  almost  perfect  models  of  dramatic  composition.  There 
is  hardly  a  university  in  the  world  that  has  not  one  of  his 
magnificent  tragedies  in  its  curriculum  of  study.  His  play  of 
"  CEdipus  t^je  King, "  which  is  -so  well  interpreted  by  the 
French  actor,  Mounet  Sully,  is  still  a  masterpiece  of  strength 


INTERIOR  OF  THE   ODEON. 


254 


ATHENS 


and  majesty;  and  all  his  other 
plays,  together  with  those  of 
^Eschylus,  Euripides,  and  Aristo- 
phanes, have  in  their  lofty  senti- 
ments never  been  surpassed,  un- 
less, indeed,  by  those  of  Shake- 
speare. Inspired  by  the  memory  of 
these  Hellenic  heroes,  I  approach- 
ed (still  almost  in  the  shadow 
of  the  Acropolis)  a  rocky  ledge, 
known  as  the  "Platform  of  De- 
mosthenes." Rough  and  un- 
shapely though  it  be,  in  view  of 
all  that  has  transpired  on  its 
summit  it  is  of  greater  value  to 
the  world  than  if  the  entire  hill 
SOPHOCLES.  were  paved  with  gold  and  stud- 

ded with  the  rarest  gems.  From  this  rock  the  orators  of 

Athens  spoke  to  the  assembled  people.      Before  it  then  was 

the  Athenian  market-place, —  the  forum    of    the  city.     The 

site  is  perfectly 

identified,     and 

one     can     look 

upon    the    very 

spot  from  which 

Demosthenes 

delivered  his 

orations,   still 

unsurpassed     in 

ancient     or     in 

modern      times 

even    by    those 

of    Cicero    and 

Burke. 


THE  THEATRE   OF   BACCHUS. 


ATHENS 


255 


Truly,  as  Byron  says,  in  Athens 

"  Where'er  we  tread  'tis  haunted  holy  ground, 
No  earth  of  thine  is  lost  in  vulgar  mould, 
But  one  vast  realm  of  wonder  spreads  around, 
And  all  the  Muse's  tales  seem  truly  told, 
Till  the  sense  aches  with  gazing  to  behold 
The  scenes  our  earliest  dreams  have  dwelt  upon." 

Leaving  this  noble  relic  of  the  past,  I  presently  stood 
before  a  solitary  gate,  known  as  "  The  Arch  of  Hadrian."  It 
was,  in  fact,  erect- 
ed here  by  that 
Roman  emperor  in 
the  second  century 
after  Christ,  when 
Greece  was  but  a 
province  of  the 
Caesars.  In  Italy 
this  would  seem 
to  us  of  great  an- 
tiquity; but  amid 
objects  such  as  I 
had  just  beheld, 
it  appeared  com- 
paratively modern.  On  one  side  of  this  portal  is  the  in- 
scription, "  This  is  Athens,  the  old  City  of  Theseus."  On  the 
other  are  the  words,  "This  is  the  new  City  of  Hadrian, 
not  that  of  Theseus."  In  fact  this  gateway  was  a  bar- 
rier, yet  a  connecting  link,  between  the  Grecian  and  the 
Roman  Athens, — the  cities  of  the  conquered  and  the  con- 
queror. 

Looking  through  this  historic  arch,  I  saw  a  group  of  stately 
columns  in  the  distance.  They  are  the  only  relics  that  remain 
of  the  great  Temple  of  Olympian  Jove.  Even  the  writers  of 
antiquity,  familiar  though  they  were  with  splendid  structures, 


THE    FRONT  OF  THE   STAGE. 


256 


ATHENS 


PLATFORM   OF   DEMOSTHENES. 


speak  of  that 
shrine  as  being 
awe-inspiring  in 
its  grandeur. 
With  the  ex- 
ception of  the 
Tern  pie  of 
Diana  at  Ephe- 
sus,  it  was  the 
largest  Grecian 
temple  ever 
built.  -  There 
were,  original- 
ly, at  least  one  hundred  and  twenty-six  of  these  Corinthian 
columns.  They  formed  almost  a  marble  forest.  Within 
it  was  a  veritable  maze  of  statues,  including  one  of  Jupiter, 
which  was  world-renowned ;  but  these,  as  well  as  nearly  all  the 
columns,  have  long  since  been  abstracted 
or  destroyed. 

These    marble    giants    do    not    form  a 
single  group.     Two  of  them  stand  apart, 
like    sentries    stationed    to    give    warning 
of    the    fresh    approach   of    the   despoiler. 
Between    them    one    column   lies 
prostrate;  a  sad  reminder  of  the 
fate  that  has  overtaken  so  many 
of  its  brethren.     However,  unlike 
most    other    ruins   in   the  world, 
this     was     not     caused    by    the 
maliciousness    of    man.      On    the 
night    of    the    26th    of    October, 
1852,  a  heavy  rainstorm  under- 
mined  the  soil  at  its  base,  and 
the    huge     column,    overcome 


DEPARTED  GLORY. 


ATHENS 


257 


at  last,  fell  its  full  length  of  sixty  feet  upon  the  sand.  It 
is  interesting  to  observe  how  evenly  its  massive  sections  still 
rest  upon  the  ground,  like  bricks  set  up  in  rows  to  push  each 
other  over  in  their  fall. 

It  is  said  that  the  prostrate  column  could  be  restored,  but 
perhaps  it  is  more  eloquent  as  it  lies.     The  shaft  above  it, 
with  its  beautiful  Corinthian  capital,  presents  a  striking  con- 
~^^  trast.     One  seems  proudly  to  say,  "  See 

what  this  noble  temple  was!  "  the  other 
to  murmur  pathetically,  "See  what  it 
is  to-day!  " 

Continuing  my  way  still  farther 
round  the  base  of  the  Acropolis,  I 
presently  perceived  a  low-browed  hill, 
partially  covered  with  a  rocky  ledge. 
It  was  the  ancient  Areopagus,  or  Hill 
of  Mars.  Here  the  Supreme  Court  of 


TEMPLE  OF  OLYMPIAN  JOVE. 


258 


ATHENS 


Athens  held  its  ses- 
sions. Such  was  the 
simple  grandeur  of  the 
old  Athenians  that  the 
only  covering  of  this 
court  -  room  was  the 
canopy  of  heaven. 
For  the  immortal  gods 
no  temple  could  be 
too  magnificent;  but 
for  the  serious  busi- 
ness of  deciding  life 

and  death  the  Greeks  would  have  no  sumptuous  decoration. 
The  sessions  of  the  court  were  always  held  at  night,  so  that 
no  face  or  gesture  could  exert  the  slightest  influence.  It 
must  have  been  a  scene  of  wonderful  solemnity,  for  here 
accusers  and  accused  stood,  as  it  were,  between  their  vener- 
able judges  and  the  gods,  while  «gKlteB  m  the  dome  of 
night  a  cloud  of  glittering  |§HP  witnesses  looked 
down  upon  them  from  illim-  itable  space. 


E    ARCH   OF    HADRIAN. 


A  flight  of 
leads    to    the 


rough-hewn  steps 
summit,       where 


THE   SENTINELS. 


ATHENS 


261 


MARS    HILL. 


the  judges  sat.  They  are  the  ancient  steps.  By  them 
St.  Paul  ascended  to  address  the  Athenian  audience  which 
gathered  before  him.  Above  him,  as  he  spoke,  rose  the 

t (      whole  glory  of 

the  Acropolis, 
with  its  mag- 
nificent temples 
and  bewilder- 
ing array  of 
statues.  And 
yet  this  stran- 
ger dared  to 
utter  the  im- 
pressive words, 

"  God  dwelleth  not  in  temples  made  with  hands."  This  in 
the  shadow  of  the  Parthenon!  "We  ought  not  to  think 
that  the  Godhead  is  like  unto  gold  or  silver,  or  stone  graven 
by  art  and  man's  device."  This  in  the  presence  of  the 
works  of  Phidias! 

When  we  remember  how  the  Acropolis  must  then  have 
looked,  we  cannot  wonder  that  the  Athenians  who  heard 
these  words  spoken 

c  '"     •""•""     "'    '- -  — •        - -"         ••••    — •••• -     -  —      \ 

within  its  shadow 
smiled,  and  ironi- 
cally answered, 
"We  will  hear  thee 
again  of  this  mat- 
ter!" Well,  Athens 
has  heard  him 
again,  and  so  has  the 
entire  world.  Paul 
discoursed  here  for  possibly  an  hour,  but  what  he  said  has 
ever  since  been  echoing  down  the  ages.  None  knew  him  then ; 
but  in  a  few  short  years,  to  the  church  founded  by  him  in  the 


IN   THE  TIME   OF   PAUL. 


262 


ATHENS 


Greek  town  of  Corinth,  he  wrote  his  two  epistles  to  the  Cor- 
inthians, which  may  be  read  in  every  language  of  the  civilized 
world ;  and  now  there  is  hardly  a  city  in  all  Christendom  that 
has  not  a  cathedral  or  church  bearing  the  great  Apostle's 
name. 

Not  far  from  this  historic  spot  is  another  ledge  of  great 
antiquity.  Here  dungeons  have  been  excavated  in  the  solid 
rock,  one  of  them  being  called  the  "Prison  of  Socrates." 


PRISON   OF   SOCRATES. 


Opinions  differ  as  to  its  authenticity ;  just  as  men  still  dispute 
about  the  exact  locality  where  Jesus  hung  upon  the  Cross. 
But  of  the  general  situation  in  each  case  there  is  no  doubt. 
In  Athens,  as  in  Jerusalem,  one  stands  in  close  proximity  to 
where  the  purest  souls  this  earth  has  ever  known  were  put  to 
death  by  those  who  hated  them;  and  somewhere  on  this  hill, 
four  hundred  years  before  the  scene  of  Calvary,  Socrates 
drank  the  poisoned  cup  forced  upon  him  by  his  enemies,  and 
in  that  draught  found  immortality. 

The  lineaments  of  Christ's  face  are  not  surely  known  to 
us,  but  those  of  Socrates  have  been  preserved  in  marble. 
His  was  a  plain  and  homely  visage.  The  playwright,  Aris- 
tophanes, caricatured  him  on  the  stage,  and  moved  the  audience 


ATHENS 


263 


to  shouts  of  laughter;  but,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  the  Nazarene,  no  man 
ever  spoke  like  Socrates.     He 
was  a  natural  teacher  of  men. 
He  walked  daily  among  the 
temples    or    in    the    market- 
place, talking  with  every  one 
who  cared  to  listen  to  him. 
His  method  was  unique.      It 
was,  by  asking  searching  ques- 
tions, to  force  men  to  think, — 
to    know    themselves.       If    he 
could  make  an  astonished  man 
give    utterance    to    an    original 
thought,  he  .was  contented   for  that 
day.      He    had    sown    the    seed ;    it 
would  bear  fruit.     He  had  no  notes, 
SOCRATES.  nor  did    he  ever  write   a  line;     yet 

his  incomparable  thoughts,  ex- 
pressed in  purest  speech,  were  faithfully  recorded  by  his 
pupils,  Xenophon  and  Plato,  and  will  be  treasured  to  the  end 
of  time. 

Another  memorial  of  Athens  which  well  repays  a  visit  is 
the  Temple  of  Theseus,—  that  legendary  hero  of  old  Greece, 
half-man,  half-god,  whose  exploits 
glimmer  through  the  dawn  of  his- 
tory, much  as  a  mountain  partially 
reveals  itself  through  morning  mists. 
Fortune  has  treated  this  old  temple 
kindly.  There  is  hardly  an  ancient 
structure  extant  that  .has  so  per- 
fectly resisted  the  disintegrating 
touch  of  time  or  the  destroy- 
ing hand  of  man.  For  the 


A    RELIC  OF  THE   ATHENIAN   FORUM. 


264 


ATHENS 


Theseum  was  built  nearly  five  hundred  years  before  the  birth 
of  Christ,  in  commemoration  of  the  glorious  battle  of  Mara- 
thon, where  Theseus  was  believed  to  have  appeared  to  aid  the 
Greeks  in  driving  from  their  shores  the  invading  Persians. 

When  in  1824  Lord  Byron  died  upon  Greek  soil,  striving 
to  free  the  Hellenic  nation  from  the  Turkish  yoke,  the  Athe- 
nians wished  his  body  to  be  buried  in  this  temple.  No  wonder 


TEMPLE   OF  THESEUS. 


they  were  grateful  to  him,  for  the  action  of  that  ardent 
admirer  of  the  Greeks  in  hastening  to  their  land  to  consecrate 
his  life  and  fortune  to  the  cause  of  liberty,  was  not,  as  some 
have  thought,  unpractical  and  sentimental.  Byron,  unlike 
many  other  poets,  was  no  mere  dreamer.  He  could,  when  he 
desired,  descend  from  Poesy's  empyrean  to  the  practical  real- 
ities of  life;  and  during  his  short  stay  in  Greece,  whether  he 
was  securing  loans,  conciliating  angry  chiefs,  or  giving  counsel 
to  the  government,  he  showed  the  tact  and  firmness  of  an  able 
statesman. 

As  if,  then,  this  classic  temple  were  a  Greek  sarcophagus, 
within  which  was  enshrined  the  form  of  the  immortal  dead, 


ATHENS 


265 


BYRON  AT   MISSOLONGHI. 


I  seemed  to  see  among  its  marble 
columns  that  noble  statue  repre- 
senting Byron  at  Missolonghi,  the 
little  town  where,  with  such  fatal 
haste,  his  life  was  sacrificed.  It 
would  be  difficult  to  imagine  any- 
thing more  distressing  than  Byron's 
last  illness.  He  was  in  a  wretched, 
malarial  district,  utterly  devoid  of 
comforts.  No  woman's  hand  was 
there  to  smooth  his  brow  or  give 
to  him  the  thousand  little  com- 
forts which  only  woman's  tender 
thoughtfulness  can  understand. 
Convinced  at  last  by  the  distress 
of  his  servants  that  his  death  was 
near,  he  called  his  faithful  valet,  Fletcher,  to  his  side, 
and  spoke  with  great  earnestness,  but  very  indistinctly,  for 
nearly  twenty  minutes.  Finally  he  said,  with  relief,  "Now 
I  have  told  you  all." 

"My  lord,"  replied   Fletcher,  "I  have  not  understood  a 

word  you  have  been  saying." 

_.— "Not    understood    me?" 

exclaimed  Lord  Byron,  with  a 
look  of  the  utmost  distress. 
"What  a  pity!  for  it  is  too 
late;  all  is  over!  " 

"I  hope  not,"  answered 
Fletcher,  "but  the  Lord's 
will  be  done." 

' '  Yes,  not  mine, ' '  said  the 
poet;  and  soon  after  mur- 
mured, "  Now  I  shall  go  to 
sleep."  These  were  the  last 


A    RUINED   CAPITAL. 


266 


ATHENS 


words  of  Byron,  for,  with  a  weary  sigh,  he  then  sank  into 
that  peaceful  slumber  in  which  his  spirit  gradually  loosed  its 
hold  on  earth,  and  drifted  outward  into  the  Unknown. 

The  more  modern  part  of  Athens  recalls  happier  recollec- 
tions of  Byron.     When  he  came  here  in  his  youth,  he  not  only 

wrote  those  magnificent  stanzas 
in  "  Childe  Harold,"  which  are 
among  the  choicest  treasures  ot 
our  English  tongue,  but  also 
composed  that  graceful  poem, 
"  Maid  of  Athens,"  each  verse 
of  which  ends  with  Greek  words 
that  signify,  "My  Life,  I  love 
thee!  "  It  was  addressed  to  the 
eldest  daughter  of  the  Greek 
lady  in  whose  house  he  lodged. 
Little  did  that  fair  Athenian  girl 
imagine  that  his  verses  would 
make  her  known  throughout  the  world.  Yet  so  it  was.  No 
actual  likeness  of  her  can  be  given,  but  we  may  well  believe 
that  she,  in  some  respects,  resembled  a  typical  Grecian 
maiden  of  to-day. 

"  By  those  tresses  unconfined, 
Woo'd  by  each  Aegean  wind; 
By  those  lids  whose  jetty  fringe 
Kiss  thy  soft  cheeks'  blooming  tinge; 
By  those  wild  eyes  like  the  roe, 
Zu>rj  /JLOO,  adq  dya-(Ju. 

By  that  lip  I  long  to  taste; 
By  that  zone-encircled  waist; 
By  all  the  token-flowers  that  tell 
What  words  can  never  speak  so  well; 
By  love's  alternate  joy  and  woe, 
Za>jj  pod,  adq  dyaxw. 


MAID  OF   ATHENS. 


ATHENS 


267 


Maid  of  Athens!  I  am  gone: 
Think  of  me,  sweet!  when  alone. 
Though  I  fly  to  Istambol, 
Athens  holds  my  heart  and  soul: 
Can  I  cease  to  love  thee?     Nol 
Zaiy  /jiot),  <raq  dyanat." 


The  tourist  who  visits  Greece  to-day  finds  much  to 
admire  in  the  modern  city  which  ancient  Athens  wears  now 
like  a  jewel  on  her  withered  breast.  It  is  a  bright,  attractive 
place.  When  I  revisited  it  a  few  years  ago,  it  seemed  to 
me  by  contrast  with  the  Orient  a  miniature  Paris.  Yet  this 
is  all  of  very  recent  growth.  Half  a  century  ago  the  devas- 
tation wrought  here  by  the  Turks  had  left  the  city  desolate. 
Hardly  a  house  in  the  whole  town  was  habitable.  But  now 
we  find  a  city  of  one  hundred  and  thirty  thousand  people, 
with  handsome  residences,  public  squares,  clean  streets,  and 
several  public  buildings  that  would  adorn  any  capital  in  the 
world. 

One  of  the  finest  private  residences  in  Athens  is  the  home 
of  the  late  Doctor  Schliemann,  the  world-renowned  explorer  of 
the  plain  of  Troy  and  other  sites  of 

• 

Greek  antiq-  uity.      It 


THE   BYZANTINE  CHURCH 


268 


ATHENS 


is  constructed  of  pure  Pentelic  marble.  Around  its  roof 
beautiful  groups  of  statuary  gleam  white  against  the  blue  of  the 
Athenian  sky.  Anywhere  else  this  style  of  decoration  would 
perhaps  seem  out  of  place;  not  so  in  Athens.  It  simply  serves 
as  a  reminder  of  the  fact  that  once  the  wealth  of  art  here  was  so 
great  that  half  the  galleries  of  the  world  are  filled  to-day  with 
the  fragments  of  it  that  remain.  So  many  statues  once  ex- 
isted here,  that 
an  Athenian 
wit  declared 
that  it  was 
easier  to  find  a 
god  in  Athens 
than  a  man! 

Perhaps  the 
finest  of  the 
public  build- 
ings in  Athens 
is  its  Academy 
of  Science.  It  is 
a  noble  struc- 
ture, composed 

entirely  of  Pentelic  marble  and  built  in  imitation  of  the 
classic  style,  with  rows  of  grand  .Ionic  columns,  while  in  the 
pediment  are  sculptures  resembling  those  with  which  the 
Greeks  two  thousand  years  ago  adorned  the  shrines  of  the 
Acropolis.  The  lofty  marble  columns  in  the  foreground  are 
crowned  with  figures  of  Minerva  and  Apollo.  Below  them 
are  the  seated  statues  of  Socrates  and  Plato.  What  more 
appropriate  combination  could  be  made  than  this :  the  wisdom 
of  the  gods  above,  the  wisdom  of  humanity  below,  expressed 
by  the  greatest  names  which  in  religion  and  philosophy  have 
given  Athens  an  immortal  fame?  In  the  spring  of  1896 
modern  Athens  seemed  suddenly  to  surpass  the  ancient 


RESIDENCE   OF   DOCTOR    SCHLIEMANN. 


ATHENS 


271 


city  in  interest,  through  the  revival  of  the  Olympian  games. 
The  mention  of  these  famous  contests  suggests  at  once 
the  old  Greek  statue  of  the  Disk-Thrower,  whose  arm 
has  been  uplifted  for  the  admiration  of  the  world  for 
more  than  two  thousand  years.  Although  this  national 
festival  of  the  Greeks  had  its  origin  nearly  eight  hundred 
years  before  the  birth  of  Christ,  and  though  the  last  one 


THE   ACADEMY   OF   SCIENCE. 


was  celebrated  fifteen  hundred  years  ago,  the  games  were 
renewed  in  1896  as  the  first  of  a  series  of  international  athletic 
contests,  which  will  hereafter  take  place  every  four  years  in 
various  portions  of  the  world.  The  first  was  given,  of  course, 
to  Greece,  the  mother  of  athletics  as  she  was  of  art.  The 
next  will  be  seen  at  Paris  in  1900,  during  the  Exposition 
there. 

For  the  great  occasion  referred  to,  the  old  Greek  Stadium 
was  partially  re-excavated  and  furnished  with  hundreds  of 
new  marble  seats.  This  was  done  not  alone  at  the  expense  of 


2/2 


ATHENS 


THE   DISK-THROWER. 


a  few  rich  Athenians,  but 
also  through  the  gener- 
osity of  wealthy  Greeks  in 
Alexandria,  Smyrna,  Lon- 
don, and  Marseilles.  The 
Stadium,  as  it  now  exists, 
can  accommodate  about 
sixty  thousand  people; 
and  on  the  closing  day  of 
the  recently  revived  fes- 
tival, fully  that  number 
were  assembled  in  it, 
while  forty  thousand  more 
were  grouped  outside  the 
walls  or  on  the  road 
between  Athens  and  the 

battlefield   of    Marathon.     Among  the  contesting  athletes 
were    several    manly    specimens     of    "Young 
America."     In  every  way  they  did  us  honor. 
Those  with  whom  we  talked  on  the  sub- 
ject spoke  in  the  highest    terms  of   the 
courtesy  and    kindness    shown    them   by 
every  one   in  Athens,  from  king  to  peas- 
ant.      Nor    was    this    strange.       It    was 
due,   first,    to    their    own   fine    qualities; 
second,  to  the  popularity  which  America 
enjoys  in  Greece,  and  third,  to  the  fact 
that    they  themselves    soon    proved    the 
heroes  of  the  Stadium. 

After  each  contest,  the  flag  of  the 
victorious  country  was  displayed  above 
the    arena,    and    the    American    emblem 
was   the    first    to    go   up.     And   it   kept 
going  up !      The  first  three  races  were  all 


AN   ATHLETE. 


ATHENS 


273 


won  by  Americans.  Then  came  the  "long  jump,"  which 
Americans  also  gained.  Then  Garrett,  of  Princeton,  beat 
the  Greeks  themselves  at  their  old  classic  sport  of  "throw- 
ing the  disk."  Even  on  the  second  day  "Old  Glory" 
shook  out  its  starry  folds  three  times,  till  presently  Denmark 
gained  a  victory,  and  then  England. 


THE   STADIUM. 


It  is  hard  to  single  out  for  special  notice  any  one  individ- 
ual among  these  heroes;  but  no  American  gained  more  popu- 
larity on  the  historic  race-course,  than  the  man  who  for  swift 
running  carried  off  so  many  prizes  in  Old  Athens, —  that  lithe 
citizen  of  the  "Athens  of  America,"  Thomas  Burke.  Over 
his  speed  and  skill  the  Greeks  were  wildly  enthusiastic. 
Some  of  them  showed  him  proofs  of  personal  affection.  One 
asked  him,  through  an  interpreter,  on  what  food  he  had  been 
trained.  Burke,  like  a  true  Bostonian,  replied,  "Beans!" 
After  one  of  his  brilliant  victories,  when  the  Americans 


2/4 


ATHENS 


had  gained  in  swift  succession  four  first  prizes,  one  old  Athe- 
nian stood  up  in  the  Stadium,  and  raising  his  hands  in  mock 
despair,  exclaimed:  "  O,  why  did  Columbus  ever  discover 
that  country!  " 

Finally,  on  the  last  day,  there  came  a  contest  which  the 
Greeks  had  been  awaiting  with  alternating  hope  and  fear.      It 


SOME  OF  THE   AMERICAN   ATHLETES. 


was  the  long  run  from  the  battlefield  of  Marathon  to  Athens, 
- — a  distance  of  twenty-five  miles. 

Besides  the  Greeks,  there  entered  for  this  race  Americans, 
Australians,  Frenchmen,  Germans,  and  Hungarians.  Secretly, 
however,  almost  every  one  of  the  spectators  hoped  that  a 
Greek  would  win.  History  and  sentiment  alike  seemed  to 
demand  that  the  coveted  honor  should  be  gained  by  a 
descendant  of  the  men  of  Marathon,  for  this  was  the  same 
road  traversed  by  the  historic  Greek,  who  ran  to  announce 


ATHENS 


275 


THOMAS    BURKE. 


to  the  Athenians  the  triumph  of  the 
Greeks  over  the  Persians  at  Mara- 
thon,   and    as    he    entered    the 
Arena,  dropped  dead,  gasping 
the  word,  "  Victory!  " 

Instinctively  that  scene 
rises  before  the  reader's  imagi- 
nation, as  it  must  have  done 
before  the  minds  of  the  thou- 
sands gathered  on  the  course 
to  witness  the  issue  of  the  race. 
It  was  half-past  four  in  the  after- 
noon when  a  cannon-shot  an- 
nounced that  the  leading  runner 
was  in  sight.  Two  or  three  minutes  passed  in  breathless 
silence.  No  one  moved  or  spoke.  Suddenly,  a  far-off  cry 
was  heard,  "  It  is  a  Greek  —  a  Greek!  "  These  words  were 

taken    up  and    ran    the    whole 
length  of  the  Stadium  as  elec- 
tricity   leaps    from     point     to 
point.     A  moment 
more,    and    a    hundred 
thousand    voices     rent 
the  air  with  cheers  and 
acclamations.         The 
king      himself     almost 
tore  the  visor  from  his 
cap,   waving  it  fran- 
tically    round      his 
head ;  for,   in    truth, 
the     victor     was     a 
Greek,  —  a     young 
peasant       named 
Loues,    twenty  -  four 


THE   SOLDIER  OF   MARATHON. 


276 


ATHENS 


years  of  age.  Before  entering  the  con- 
test, he  had  partaken  of  the  sacrament 
and  had  invoked  the  aid  of  Heaven; 
and  apparently  the  gods  had  come  to 
his  assistance,  for  he  had  made  the  run 
of  twenty-five  miles  over  a  hard,  rough 
country  in  two  hours  and  forty -five  min- 
utes! To  show  the  feeling  the  victor 
entertained  for  the  American  athletes, 
it  may  be  said  that  when  Loues  crossed 
the  line,  notwithstanding  the  tremen- 
dous excitement  and  enthusiasm  that 
LOUES-  prevailed,  he  ran  to  Tom  Burke,  and, 

throwing    his    arms    around    him,   kissed    the   American   flag 

which  the  Bostonian  was  holding  in  his  hand. 

At   the  king's   palace,    Loues    and    the   other    competing 

athletes  were  entertained  in  royal  style  by  the  crowned  head 

of  the  kingdom.     The  joy  and  pride  of  the  young  peasant's 

father,  as  he  saw  him  universally  feted 

and  admired,  is  said    to  have  been  ex- 
tremely   beautiful     and     touching;     for 

Loues   was   treated   almost    as    a   demi- 
god   by   his    delighted    countrymen. 

The    strangest    gifts   were   showered 

upon  him.     A  cafe,  for  example, 

offered    him    carte  blanche  at  its 

hospitable    table  for    the  rest   of 

his  life;   a  barber-shop  promised 

him   free    shaves    so    long    as    he 

lived ;     and    even    a    boot-black 

coveted    the  honor    of    polishing 

his  shoes  for  an  indefinite  period, 

expecting     nothing     in     return. 

Large  sums  of  money  also  were 


- 


THE   "  LANTERN  OF   DEMOSTHENES." 


ATHENS 


277 


offered  him;  but  these,  with  the  true  spirit  of  the  athlete, 
Loues  declined.  "The  only  reward  I  crave,"  he  exclaimed, 
"  is  the  wreath  of  laurel  from  Olympia,  such  as  my  ancestors 
received  two  thousand  years  ago.  I  am  poor,  but  I  ran, 
not  for  money,  but  for  the  glory  of  my  native  land." 

The  pleasantest  route  in  taking  leave  of  the  Hellenic 
kingdom  is  to  embark  upon  a  steamer 
and  sail  through  the  Grecian  Archi- 
pelago. It  is  the  same  route  taken 
by  the  old  Greek  colonists  when  they 
went  forth  to  civilize  the  world, —  the 
same  path  followed  by  the  Trojan 
exiles  when  they  sailed  to  Italy  to 
build  upon  her  seven  hills  the  walls  of 
Rome.  To  coast  along  the  shores 
of  the  ^Egean,  after  a  tour  in  Athens, 
is  one  of  the  most  exquisite  enjoy- 
ments this  life  can  give.  To  the  stu- 
dent of  history  in  particular,  the  scene 
recalls  events  so  glorious  that  he  is 
lost  in  admiration,  not  only  of  the 
marvelous  country  as  a  whole,  but  of 
what  the  ancient  Greeks  accomplished 
for  humanity.  In  what  department  did  they  not  excel? 

Is  it  their  sculpture  that  we  question?  At  once  the 
incomparable  Venus  of  Melos  makes  reply;  that  statue  found 
(alas !  in  partial  ruin)  on  one  of  the  islands  that  are  scat- 
tered broadcast  on  this  classic  sea,  like  disentangled  pearls,  and 
hence  a  fitting  emblem  of  those  treasures  of  antiquity  cast 
on  the  shores  of  time  after  a  long-continued  and  disastrous 
storm. 

Is  it  their  language?  It  was  the  most  perfect  and  elastic 
tongue  in  which  men's  lips  have  ever  fashioned  speech.  It 
seems  more  than  chance  that  caused  it,  at  the  birth  of  Christ, 


VENUS   OF  MELOS. 


278 


ATHENS 


to  be  the  leading  literary  language 

of  the  world,  that  it  might  thus 

receive,  embody,   and  perpetuate 

the  truths  of  the  New  Testament.' 

Even  now   we    turn  to  that   old 

tongue  to  find  exact  expression  for 

our  terms  of  science,  and  in  it  we 

name  all  our  new  inventions  such 

as    heliotypes    and    photographs, 

the  telegraph  and  the  telephone. 
Is    it    poetry?     At    once    there 

seems  to  rise  before  us  from  these 

waters,  which  encircled  him  at  birth 

and  death,  the   face    of    Homer, — 

the  father  of  poetry.     To  whom  has  he  not  been  a  joy  and 

inspiration?     Virgil  was  but  the  pupil  and  imitator  of  Homer. 

And    the   Iliad  and    Odyssey   are    still    such    storehouses    of 

eloquence    and    beauty,    that    such    statesmen    as    Gladstone 

and  the  Earl  of  Derby  have  sharpened  their  keen    intellects 

in  making  their  translations. 

Is  it  philosophy?     "Out  of  Plato,"  says 
Emerson,   "come    all    things    that    are    still 
written   and    debated    among    men    of 
thought." 

The  lesson,  then,  which  Athens 
teaches  us  is  this:  not  to  regard  past 
men,  past  deeds,  and  ruined  shrines  as 
dead  and  useless  limbs  upon  the  Tree 
of  Time.  The  Past  has  made  the 
Present,  just  as  the  Present  is  now 
fashioning  Futurity.  Moreover,  since 
one  lofty  sentiment  begets  another; 
one  valiant  deed  inspires  a  second; 
and  one  sublime  achievement  is  a 


ATHENS 


279 


stepping-stone  to  loftier  heights;  what  portion  of  our  earth 
can  give  to  us  more  inspiration  than  Athens, — birthplace  of 
the  earliest  masterpieces  of  the  human  race,  the  mother  of 
imperishable  memories,  and  of  an  art  that  conquers  time. 


VENICE 


THE  BAY  OF  VENICE. 


VENICE  is  still  victorious  over  Time.      Despite  her  age, 
the  City  of  the  Sea  is  fascinating  still.      She  has  suc- 
cessfully defied  a  dozen  centuries;  she  may  perhaps 
defy  as  many  more.     All  other  cities  in  the  world  resemble 


She   is  the   City 
day  where  Poetry 


one  another.  Venice  remains  unique, 
of  Romance  —  the  only  place  on  earth  to- 
conquers  Prose.  The  marriage  of  the 
Adriatic  and  its  bride  has  never  been 
dissolved.  She  is  to-day,  as 
she  has  been  for  fourteen 
hundred  years,  a  capital 
whose  streets  are  water  and 
whose  vehicles  are  boats. 
She  is  an  incomparable  illus- 
tration of  the  poetical  and 
the  picturesque;  and,  were 
she  nothing  else,  would  still 
attract  the  world.  But  she 
is  infinitely  more.  The 
hands  of  Titian  and  Tinto- 
retto have  embellished  her. 
She  wears  upon  her  breast  some  architectural  jewels  unsur- 
passed in  Italy.  And,  finally,  the  splendor  of  her  history  en- 
folds her  like  the  glory  of  her  golden  sunsets,  and  she  emerges 


STATUE   OF   VICTOR    EMANUEL. 


284 


VENICE 


from  the  waves  of  Time,  that  have  repeatedly  endeavored  to 
engulf  her,  as  do  her  marble  palaces  from  the  encircling  sea. 

The  charm  of  Venice  begins  even  at  what  is  usually  the 
most  prosaic  of  places  —  a  railway  station.  For,  to  a  city 
where  there  are  no  living  horses,  the  iron  horse  at  least  has  made 
its  way;  and  by  a  bridge,  two  miles  in  length,  Venice  is  now 


THE   RAILWAY    STATION. 


connected  with  the  outer  world  by  rail.  A  quick,  delicious 
feeling  of  surprise  comes  over  one  to  see  awaiting  him  in  the 
place  of  carriages  a  multitude  of  boats.  The  pleasing  sense 
of  novelty  (so  rare  now  in  the  world)  appeals  to  us  at  once, 
and,  with  the  joyful  consciousness  of  entering  on  a  long- 
anticipated  pleasure,  we  seat  ourselves  within  a  gondola,  and 
noiselessly  and  swiftly  glide  out  into  the  unknown. 

The  first  surprise  awaiting  almost  every  visitor  to  Venice 
is  that  of  seeing  all  its  buildings  rise  directly  from  the  sea. 
He  knows,  of  course,  that  Venice  rests  upon  a  hundred  islands, 


THE  BAY  OF  VENICE. 


VENICE 


287 


linked  by  four  hundred  and  fifty  bridges.  Hence,  he  expects 
to  see  between  the  houses  and  the  liquid  streets  some  fringe 
of  earth,  some  terrace  or  embankment.  But  no:  —  the  stately 
mansions  emerge  from  the  ocean  like  a  huge  sea-wall,  and, 
when  the  surface  of  the  water  is  disturbed 

by  a  light  breeze  or  passing      djjflip  u          boat, 

it  overflows  their  marble 
steps  as  softly  as  the 
ultimate    ripple    of 
the  surf  spreads  its 
white  foam  along 
the    beach.       As, 
then,  our  gondolier 


A   LIQUID   LABYRINTH. 


takes  us  farther  through  this 
liquid  labyrinth,  we  naturally 
ask  in  astonishment,  "What 
was  the  origin  of  this  mys- 
terious city?  How  came  it 
to  be  founded  thus  within  the 
sea?"  The  wonder  is  easily 
explained.  In  the  fifth  cen- 
tury after  Christ,  when  the  old  Roman  empire  had  well-nigh 
perished  under  the  deadly  inroads  of  barbarians,  another 
devastating  army  entered  Italy,  led  by  a  man  who  was 
regarded  as  the  "scourge  of  God."  This  man  was  Attila. 
Such  was  the  ruin  always  left  behind  him,  that  he  could 
boast  with  truth  that  the  grass  grew  not  where  his  horse  had 


"  LIKE   A    HUGE   SEA-WALL." 


288 


VENICE 


trod.  A  few  men  seeking  to  escape  this  vandal,  fled  to  a 
group  of  uninhabited  islands  in  the  Adriatic.  Exiled  from 
land,  they  cast  themselves  in  desperation  on  the  sea. 

But  no  one  can  behold  this  ocean-city  without  perceiv- 
ing that  those  exiles  were  rewarded  for  their  courage      The 


THE  OCEAN   CITY. 


sea  became  their  mother, — their  divinity.  She  sheltered 
them  with  her  encircling  waves.  She  nourished  them  from 
her  abundant  life.  She  forced  them  to  build  boats  in  which 
to  transport  merchandise  from  land  to  land.  And  they,  obey- 
ing her,  grew  from  a  feeble  colony  of  refugees  to  be  a  power- 
ful republic,  and  made  their  city  a  nucleus  of  vast  wealth  and 
commerce, — a  swinging  door  between  the  Orient  and  Occi- 
dent, through  which  there  ebbed  and  flowed  for  centuries  a 


VENICE 


289 


tide  of  golden 
wealth,  of  which 
her  glorious  sun- 
sets seemed  but 
the  reflection. 

Who  can  for- 
get his  first 
glimpse  of  the 
Grand  Canal  ? 
Seen  at  a  favor- 
able hour,  the 
famous  thorough- 
fare delights  the 
senses  as  it  thrills 

THE   GRAND  CANAL. 

the    heart.       For 

two  miles  it  winds  through  the  city  in  such  graceful  lines 
that  every  section  of  its  course  reveals  a  stately  curve.  Upon 
this  beautiful  expanse  the  sun  of  Venice,  like  a  cunning 
necromancer,  displays  most  marvelous  effects  of  light  and 
shade,  transforming  it  at  different  hours  of  the  day  into 
an  avenue  of  lapis-lazuli,  or  emerald,  or  gold, — an  eloquent 

reminder  of  the 
time  when  Venice 
was  a  paradise  of 
pleasure,  when  life 
upon  its  liquid 
streets  was  a  per- 
petual pageant, 
and  this  incom- 
parable avenue  its 
splendid  promen- 
ade. Its  curving 
banks  are  lined 
with  palaces. 


VENETIAN   PALACES. 


VENICE 

They  seem  to  be  standing  hand  in  hand,  saluting  one  another 
gravely,  as  though  both  shores  were  executing  here  the  move- 
ments of  some  courtly  dance.  These  were  originally  the  homes 
of  men  whose  names  were  written  in  that  record  of  Venetian 
nobility,  called  "The  Book  of  Gold."  Once  they  were  mar- 
vels of  magnificence;  and  viewed  in  the  sunset  light,  or  by  the 
moon,  they  are  so  still.  Under  that  enchanting  spell  their 


A   MARINE   PORTE   COCHERE. 


massive  columns,  marble  balconies,  and  elegantly  sculptured 
arches,  seem  as  imposing  as  when  the  Adriatic's  Bride  was 
still  a  queen  and  wore  her  robes  of  purple  and  of  gold. 

To  build  such  structures  on  the  shifting  sands  was  a  stu- 
pendous undertaking;  and  what  we  cannot  see  of  these  Vene- 
tian palaces  has  cost  much  more  than  that  which  rises  now 
above  the  waves.  From  every  door  broad  marble  steps 
descend  to  the  canal,  and  tall  posts,  painted  with  the  colors 
of  the  family,  serve  as  a  mooring  place  for  gondolas,  a  kind 
of  marine  porte  cochtre.  Each  of  these  structures  has  its 
legend, —  poetic,  tragic  or  artistic;  and  these  our  gondolier 


BROWNING  PALACE. 


VENICE 


293 


HOME   OF   DESDEMONA 


successively  murmurs  to  us  in  his  soft 

Venetian   dialect  as    we    glide    along 

the  glittering  highway. 

Thus,  in  the  Palazzo  Vendramini, 

the  composer  Wagner  died  in  1883. 

Not  far  from  this  stately  mansion  is 

the    home    of    Desdemona.      Within 

another  of  these  palaces  the  old  Doge 

Foscari  died  of  a  broken  heart  at  the 

ill-treatment  of  his  countrymen.      In 

one  lived  Byron ;    in  another   Robert 

Browning;  in  a  third   George  Sand; 

a  fourth  was  once  the  home  of  Titian. 
But   now  our  winding  course  re- 
veals to  us,  suspended  over  this  noble 

thoroughfare,   a    structure   which  we 

recognize  at  once — "The  Bridge  of 

the  Rialto."     For  centuries  this  was 

the  only  bridge  that  crossed  the  Grand  Canal.     An  ugly  one 

of   iron  has  been  constructed  near  the  railway  station;  but 

this  Rialto  remains  a  relic  of  Venice  in  her  glory,  for  its  huge 

arch  is  entirely 
of  marble,  and 
has  a  length  of 
over  a  hundred 
and  fifty  feet. 
Its  cost  exceeded 
half  a  million 
dollars;  and  the 
foundations, 
which  for  three 
hundred  and 
twenty  years 
have  faithfully 


294 


VENICE 


supported  it,  are  twelve  thousand  trunks  of  elm  trees,  each 
ten  feet  in  length.  To-day,  little  shops  are  built  along  the 
bridge,  leaving  a  passageway  between  them  in  the  centre  and 
one  without  on  either  side. 


The  Rialto  seems  prosaic 
in  the  glare  of  noon.  But 
wave  before  it,  for  an  in- 
stant, the  magic  wands  of 
fancy  and  historical  associa- 
tion, and  we  can  picture  to 
ourselves  how  it  must  have 
looked  when  on  this  Rivo- 
Alto,  or  "High  Bank," 

which  gives  the  bridge  its  name,  Venetian  ladies  saw  out- 
spread before  them  the  treasures  of  the  Orient;  when  at  this 
point  the  laws  of  the  Republic  were  proclaimed ;  when  mer- 
chants congregated  here  as  to  a  vast  Exchange ;  and  when, 
on  this  same  bridge,  the  forms  of  Shylock  and  Othello  may 


VENICE 


295 


have  stood  out  in  sharp  relief  against  the  sky;  when,  in  a 
word,  Venice,  like  Venus,  had  been  born  of  the  blue  sea, 
possessing  all  the  fascinating  languor  of  the  East,  and  yet 
belonging  to  the  restless  West.  ^^^^^^^^^  But  to  ac- 
quire that  mental  state  in  .^^|  ^^^  which 
these  visions  of  Vene- 
tian splendor  will  re- 
cur to  one,  certain 
conditions  are 


THE  CITY  OF   SILENCE. 


essential  for  the  tourist :  first,  he  must  choose  the  moon  for 
his  companion;  and,  second,  he  must  manage  to  arrive  in 
the  City  of  the  Sea  by  night.  Venice,  though  beautiful, 
shows  marks  of  age.  The  glare  of  day  is  far  too  strong  for 


296 


VENICE 


VENICE  BY   MOONLIGHT. 


her  pathetically 
fair,  but  wrinkled, 
face.  Pay  her  the 
compliment  to  see 
her  at  her  best. 
In  Venice  make 
your  nights  and 
days  exchange 
places.  Sleep 
through  the 
morning  hours, 
and  spend  the 
afternoons  read- 
ing books  that  tell 
of  old  Venetian 
glory.  Then,  when  the  daylight  wanes,  and  the  moon  turns 
these  streets  into  paths  of  shimmering  gold,  go  forth  to  woo 
Venezia,  and  she  will  give  you  of  her  best. 

The  form  of  the 
Grand  Canal  is 
that  of  a  huge  let- 
ter "S."  When- 
ever it  is  looked 
upon  from  an  ele- 
vation, this  "  S  " 
is  suggestive  of 
the  Italian  word 
Silenzio,  for  Venice 
is  pre-eminently 
the  City  of  Silence. 
No  roar  of  wheels 
disturbs  one  here; 
no  strident  gongs; 
no  tramp  of  horses' 


ON  THE  GRAND  CANAL. 


VENICE 


299 


feet.     Reclining  on  the  cushions  of  a  gondola,  one  floats  in 
absolute  tranquillity  upon  a  noiseless  sea. 

To  go  to  another  city  after  Venice  is  like  removing  from 
one's  ears  the  fingers  which  for  a  little  time  had  closed  them 
to  all  sounds.  No  place  is  better  for  a  weary  brain-worker 
than  Venice.  His  nerves  relax  in  its  restful  stillness.  The 
hand  of  Nature  gently  lifts  the  veil  from  his  hot,  wearied  eyes; 
and  he  perceives  at  last  that  when  a  comfortable  livelihood 
has  been  secured,  to  keep  on  toiling  feverishly  in  the  modern 


A    FAMILIAR   SCENE. 


world,  beneath  a  pall  of  soot  and  in  the  midst  of  noisy,  heart- 
less crowds,  is  not  to  live :  it  is  merely  preparing  to  die. 

Upon  a  moonlit  night  these  liquid  corridors  present  a  scene 
too  beautiful  for  words.  It  is  the  Venice  of  one's  dreams. 
According  to  the  light  or  shade,  we  glide  through  alternating 
paths  of  glory  and  of  gloom.  All  the  defects  which  day 
reveals  are,  by  moonlight,  totally  concealed  or  softened  into 
indistinctness,  like  features  hidden  by  a  silvery  veil.  Here 
and  there  some  lights  are  gleaming  through  the  casements; 
but,  as  a  rule,  the  city  seems  to  sleep. 

Occasionally,  it  may  be,  a  boat  full  of  musicians  will  appear, 
and,  to  the  passionate  throbbing  of  the  harp  or  guitar,  a  score 
of  voices  chant  the  songs  of  Italy.  Meanwhile,  a  dozen  gon- 
dolas, with  listening  occupants,  float  in  the  shadows  of  the 


300 


VENICE 


!T  OF   VENICE. 


marble  palaces.  These,  when  the  music  ceases,  approach  the 
expectant  singers,  and  silver  coins  fall  into  outstretched  hands, 
which  glisten  phantom-like  for  a  moment  in  the  moonlight. 
Then  each  gondola,  with  swan-like  grace,  in  silence  disappears, 
leaving  behind  it  a  long  furrow  like  a  chain  of  gold. 

When  the  visi- 
tor to  Venice  pre- 
pares to  leave  for 
a  time  his  gon- 
dola, there  is  no 
need  to  say  where 
he  will  land . 
There  is  one  lit- 
tle area  more 
important  than 
all  others,  which 
every  tourist  longs  to  see  and  explore.  It  is  a  perfectly 
familiar  scene,  yet  I  have  often  noticed,  with  a  thrill  of  sym- 
pathy, a  tremor  in  the  voice  of  the  enthusiastic  traveler  who 
sees  it  for  the  first  time,  as  he  exclaims:  "That  building 
on  the  right  is  surely  the  Ducal  Palace,  and  on  the  left  is  the 
entrance  to  the  Piazzetta." 

"That  lofty  tower  is,  of  course,  the  Campanile.  But  where 
is  St.  Mark's?" 

"It  is  just  behind  the  Ducal  Palace,  and  invisible  from  this 
point." 

"And  the  famous  Piazza?" 

"  That,  too,  is  hidden  behind  the  building  on  the  left,  but 
it  is  at  right  angles  with  the  Piazzetta,  and  lies  within  the 
shadow  of  the  Campanile." 

As  one  draws  nearer  to  the  spot,  how  marvelously  beauti- 
tul  it  all  appears !  Now  one  begins  to  appreciate  the  splen- 
dor of  the  Doge's  Palace.  Above  it,  like  a  constellation 
rising  from  the  sea,  glitter  the  domes  of  the  Cathedral  of  San 


VENICE 


301 


Marco.  Presently  the  long  landing-pier  and  the  attractive 
Piazzetta  are  distinctly  visible;  and,  turning  one's  astonished 
vision  heavenward,  one  looks  with  admiration  on  the  splendid 
bell-tower,  three  hundred  and  fifty  feet  in  height,  its  pointed 
summit  piercing  the  light  clouds  and  its  aerial  balcony  hung 
like  a  gilded  cage  against  the  sky.  The  traveler  who  beholds 
these  scenes  may  have  had  many  delightful  moments  in  his  life, 
but  that  in  which  he  looks  for  the  first  time  upon  this  glorious 
combination  of  the  historic  and  the  beautiful  can  hardly  be 
surpassed.  Like  the  names  of  the  old  Venetian  nobles,  it 
should  be  written  in  a  "  Book  of  Gold." 

On  the  border  of  the  Piazzetta  are  two  stately  columns. 
On  landing,  therefore,  one  naturally  gives  to  them  one's  first 
attention.  It  is  difficult  to  realize  that  these  granite  mono- 
liths have  been  standing  here  for  more  than  seven  hundred 


THE   EDGE  OF  THE   PIAZZETTA. 


years,  but  such  is  the  fact,  as  they  were  erected  in  the  year 
1187.  They  were  a  portion  of  the  spoils  brought  back  by 
the  Venetians  from  the  treasure-laden  East.  Each  up- 
holds the  emblem  of  a  patron  saint:  one,  a  statue  of  St. 
Theodore ,  the  other,  the  famous  winged  lion  of  St.  Mark. 


302 


VENICE 


Formerly,  on  a  scaffold  reared  between  these  columns,  state 
criminals  were  put  to  death  —  their  backs  turned  toward  the 
land  which  casts  them  from  her,  their  faces  toward  the 

sea,  symbol  of 
eternity.  But 
now  the  shadows 
of  these  ancient 
shafts  fall  on  a 
multitude  of 
pleasure-boats, 
and  echo  to  the 
voices  of  the  gon- 
doliers. Close  by 
these  columns  is 
the  Ducal  Palace, 


— that  splendid 
symbol  of  Ve- 
netian glory, — 
a  record  of  the 
city's  brilliant 
history  pre- 
served in  stone. 
This  spot,  for 
more  than  a 
thousand  years, 
was  the  resi- 
dence of  the  Doges,,  Five  palaces  preceded  this,  each  in  turn 
having  been  destroyed  by  fire.  But  every  time  a  more  mag- 
nificent building  rose  from  the  ashes  of  its  predecessor.  The 
present  structure  has  been  standing  for  nearly  five  hundred 


SANTA  MARIA  DELLA  SALUTE. 


VENICE 


305 


years,  and  from  the  variety  of  architectural  styles  mingled 
here  from  North,  South,  East  and  West,  Ruskin  called  it, 
"The  Central  Building  of  the  World." 

Around  it,  on  two  sides,  are  long  arcades  of  marble  col- 
umns, the  lower  ones  adorned  with  sculptures  in  relief,  the 
upper  ones  ending  in  graceful  circles  pierced  with  quatrefoils. 


ALONG  THE   SHORE. 


Above  them  is  the  crowning  glory  of  the  building, —  a  beau- 
tiful expanse  of  variegated  marble,  with  intricate  designs  run- 
ning diagonally  over  its  surface.  At  every  corner  the  twisted 
column  of  Byzantine  architecture  is  observed,  and  on  the 
border  of  the  roof  a  fringe  of  pinnacles  and  pointed  arches 
cuts  its  keen  silhouette  against  the  sky.  The  lower  columns 
seem  perhaps  a  trifle  short,  but  this  is  because  the  building 
has  gradually  settled  toward  the  sea,  as  if  unable  to  support 
the  burden  of  its  years  and  memories. 

By    day    this  palace    is   superbly   beautiful;    but,   in    the 
evening,  when  illumined  by  the  moon,  or  flooded  with  electric 


306 


VENICE 


light,  it  is,  perhaps,  the  most  imposing  structure  in  the 
whole  of  Europe.  At  such  a  time  it  looks  like  an  immense 
sarcophagus  of  precious  stone,  in  which  the  glories  of  old 
Venice  lie  entombed.  The  colonnades  around  the  Ducal 
Palace  give  perfect  shel- 
ter from  the  sun  or  rain, 
and  hundreds  stroll  here 
through  the  day,  having 
the  somber  palace  on 
the  one  side,  and,  on  the 
other,  all  the  gaiety  of 
the  Grand  Canal.  But 
in  the  evening,  when 
the  adjoining  St.  Mark's 
Square  is  thronged  with 
promenaders,  and  music 
floats  upon  the  air,  the 
arcade  is  to  the  Piazza. 
what  a  conservatory  is 
to  a  ball-room.  Lovers 
invariably  find  such 
places,  for  not  even  the 
moonbeams  can  pen- 
etrate these  shadows. 
At  such  a  time  the 
promenades  seem  shad- 
owy lanes  of  love  con- 
ducting from  the  gay  Piazza,  to  the  waiting  gondola. 

To  know  the  past  of  the  Ducal  Palace  thoroughly  would 
be  to  know  the  entire  history  of  Venice,  from  its  transcendent 
glories  to  its  darkest  crimes.  For  this  was  not  alone  the 
residence  of  the  Doges ;  it  was  at  different  epochs  the  Senate- 
House,  the  Court  of  Justice,  a  prison,  and  even  a  place  of 
execution.  Fronting  upon  the  courtyard,  just  beneath  the 


A  CORNER  OF  THE  DUCAL  PALACE — THE  JUDGMENT 
OF  SOLOMON. 


VENICE 


307 


A   DUCAL   PORTAL. 


roof,  the  tourist  sees  some  small, 
round  windows.  They  admit  a  little 
light  to  a  few  cells,  known  as  the 
Piombi,  or  Leads,  because  they 
were  located  just  beneath  the  lead 
roof  of  the  palace.  In  summer 
the  heat  in  them  is  almost  unen- 
durable. And  yet  in  one  of  them 
the  Italian  patriot  and  poet,  Silvio 
Pellico,  seventy  years  ago,  was 
kept  a  wretched  captive,  and  he 
has  related  the  sad  story  of  his 
sufferings  in  his  famous  book,  Le 
mie  Prigioni,  or  "  My  Prisons." 

It  is  but  a  step  from  the  outer 
corridors  into  the  courtyard  of  the 
palace.  Four  elegantly  decorated 
marble  walls  enclose  this,  and  one  instinctively  looks  up  to 
see  the  splendid  robes  of  Senators  light  up  the  sculptured 
colonnades,  and  the  rich  toilettes  of  the  Venetian  ladies 
trail  upon  the  marble  stairways.  But  no !  This  square, 

whose  walls  have  echoed  to  the  foot- 
steps of  the  Doges,  now  guards 
a  solemn  silence.      In  its  pa- 
thetic, voiceless  beauty,  it 
is  perhaps  the  saddest  spot 
in  Venice. 

Two    beautiful    bronze 
well-curbs    glitter     in    the 
foreground;    but    though 
the   wells    which    they   en- 
close   contain    good   water,  al- 
most no  life  surrounds  them,  and 
to    the    modern   visitor  they    now 


THE   COLONNADES. 


308 


VENICE 


resemble  gorgeous 
jewel-caskets,  which 
years  ago  were  rifled 
of  their  precious 
gems. 

Beyond  these, 
one  observes  a  mar- 
ble staircase  leading 
to  the  second  story. 
It  is  imposing  when 
one  stands  before  it.  Above  it  frowns  the  winged  lion  of  St. 
Mark,  as  if  to  challenge  all  who  dare  set  foot  upon  these 
steps.  Stationed  like  sentinels  to  the  right  and  left  are  two 
colossal  statues  representing  Mars  and  Neptune,  which  have 
indeed  given  the  name,  "The  Giants'  Staircase,"  to  this 
thoroughfare  of  marble.  Their 

stony  silence  n     „  is  almost  op- 

^FnwJK    '  v: :    I    '      i,iiSfii  -  - 
pressive.  illiBi    f  LJ^U    Hte*  Think  of 


A   WELL-CURB. 


THE  COURTYARD   OF  THE   DOGES 


VENICE 


309 


the  splendid  pageants 
and  historic  scenes 
which  they  have 
looked  upon,  but 
which  their  unimpas- 
sioned  lips  will  ne'er 
describe !  Between 
these  figures,  on  the 
topmost  stair,  amid  a 
scene  of  splendor 
which  even  the  great- 
est of  Venetian  artists 
could  only  faintly  rep- 
resent, the  Doges 

were  inaugurated  into  sovereignty.  Here  they  pronounced 
their  solemn  oath  of  office;  and  one  of  them,  Marino  Faliero, 
having  betrayed  his  trust,  was  here  beheaded  for  his  crime. 
It  will  be  remembered  that  Byron's  tragedy  of  Marino 
Faliero  closes  with  the  line: 

"  The  gory  head  rolls  down  the  Giants'  Steps." 


THE  GIANTS'  STEPS. 


VENICE 


When  one  has  passed  these  marble  giants  and  entered  the 
state  apartments  of  the  palace,  despite  the  intimation  given 
by  the  outer  walls,  one  is  astonished  at  the  splendor  here 
revealed.  As  the  bright  sunlight  falls  on  the  mosaic  pave- 
ment, it  is  easy  to  imagine  that  ^^^H^KK^^  one  is 
walking  on  a  beach  whose 
glittering  sands  are 
grains  of  gold.  The 
roof  and  walls  are 
covered  with  enor- 
mous masterpieces 
set  in  golden  frames. 
All  of  them  have 
one  theme — the  glori- 


APARTMENTS  IN  THE 
DOGE'S  PALACE. 

fkation  of  Ven= 
ice.  One  of 
them,  finished 
by  Tintoretto 
when  he  was 
more  than  three 
score  years  and 
ten,  is  seventy  feet  in  length,  and  is  the  largest  painting  known 
to  art.  One  trembles  to  think  what  fire  could  accomplish 
here  in  a  single  night,  not  only  in  this  Ducal  Palace,  but  in 
the  equally  marvelous  buildings  which  adjoin  it;  for  they 
could  never  be  reproduced.  They  are  unique  in  the  world. 

Each  of  these  gold-enameled  halls  is  like  a  gorgeous  vase, 
in  which  are  blooming  fadelessly  the  flowers  of  Venetian  his- 
tory. What  scenes  have  been  enacted  here,  when  on  these 


THE  COURTYARD  OF  THE  DUCAL  PALACE. 


VENICE 


STATUE  OF  COLLEONI  —  A   VENETIAN 
GENERAL. 


benches  sat  the  Council- 
ors of  the  Republic  wear- 
ing their  scarlet  robes! 
Upon  their  votes  depend- 
ed life  and  death;  and 
here  the  die  was  cast  for 
peace  or  war.  Close  by 
the  door  was  placed  a  lion's 
head  of  marble,  into  the 
mouth  of  which  (the  famous 
Bocca  di  Lione]  secret  denun- 
ciations were  cast.  These 
were  examined  by  the  Council 
of  Ten,  all  of  whose  acts  were 
shrouded  in  profoundest  secrecy; 
and  such  at  last  was  their  despotic 
power  that  even  the  Doge  himself  came  to  be  nothing  but 
the  slave  and  mouthpiece  of  that  group  of  tyrants,  and  was 
as  little  safe  from  them  as  those  whose  sentences  he  automat- 
ically signed. 

While    standing  here,   there   naturally    presents    itself   to 
one's  imagination  a  scene  in  the  old  days  when,  as  the  Doge 

descended  from  his  palace, 
he  met  some  lowly  suppliant 
presenting  to  him  an  appeal 
for  mercy.  Ah,  what  a 
glorious  age  was  that  for 
Venice!  —  when  her  victori- 
ous flag  rolled  out  its  purple 
folds  over  the  richest  islands 
of  the  Mediterranean  and 
the  Adriatic;  when  she  pos- 
sessed the  largest  armory 
and  the  most  extensive 


THE   WINGED    LION. 


VENICE 


dock-yards  in  the  world  (in  which  ten  thousand  beams  of 
oak  were  always  ready  for  the  construction  of  new  ships); 
when  she  could  boast  of  having  the  first  bank  of  deposit 
ever  founded  in  Europe;  when  (Rome  excepted)  she  was  the 
first  to  print  books  in  Italy;  and  when  she  sold  in  St.  Mark's 


THE  GOLDEN  AGE  OF  VENICE. 


Square  the  first  newspaper  ever  known  to  the  world,  demand- 
ing for  it  a  little  coin  called  gazetta,  which  has  given  us  the 
word  "  gazette." 

Recalling  these  Venetian  exploits,    I   stood   one  evening 
in   one   of    the    most    delightful    places    in   all  Venice, —  the  ( 
upper  balcony   of    the   Ducal    Palace.      Lingering    here    and 
looking    out    between    the    sculptured    columns    toward    the 


VENICE 


315 


island  of  San  Giorgio,  I  thought  of  the  old  times  when  every 
year,  upon  Ascension  Day,  the  Doge  descended  from  this  bal- 
cony and  stepped  upon  a  barge  adorned  with  canopies  of  gold 
and  velvet,  and  with  a  deck  inlaid  with  ebony  and  mother-of- 
pearl.  Then,  to  the  sound  of  martial  music,  that  splendid 
vessel  swept  out  toward  the  sea,  propelled  by  eighty  gilded 
oars;  till,  finally,  amidst  the  roar  of  cannon  and  the  shouts  of 
the  assembled  populace,  the  Doge  cast  into  the  blue  waves  a 


ISLAND  OF  SAN   GIORGI 


ring  of  gold,  exclaiming  solemnly:  "We  wed  thee,  O  Sea, 
with  this  ring,  emblem  of  our  rightful  and  perpetual  domin- 
ion." 

But  there  was  another  side  to  this  magnificent  picture, 
which  dimmed  the  splendor  of  Venetian  palaces.  For  just 
behind  the  residence  of  the  Doges,  suspended  over  the  canal, 
— "a  palace  and  a  prison  on  each  hand," — is  one  of  the  best 
known  structures  in  the  world, —  the  Bridge  of  Sighs.  This 
is  indeed  a  sad  memorial  of  tyranny.  True,  recent  scoffers 
at  sentiment  sneer  at  the  associations  of  this  bridge,  and  one 
has  even  called  it  a  "pathetic  swindle."  But,  whether  or 
not  the  prisoners  of  Venice  breathed  through  these  grated 


VENICE 


windows  a  last  sigh,  as  they  relinquished  life  and  liberty,  cer- 
tain it  is  that  in  the  building  on  the  right,  far  down  below 
the  water's  edge,  are  some  of  the  most  horrible  dungeons  that 

human  cruelty  has  ever  designed  ; 
and  any  visitor  to  Venice  may 
cross  this  bridge  and  grope  his 
way  down  moldering  flights  of 
stone  steps  to  behold  them. 

All  who  have  done  so  will 
recollect  those  fetid  cells,  slimy 
with  dampness,  shrouded  in  dark- 


A   VENETIAN    FISHER   BOY. 


hausted  air  which  filters  to  them  through    the    narrow  cor- 

ridors.    They  will  remember  the  iron  grating  through  which 

was  passed  the  scanty  food  that  for  a  time  prolonged  the  pris- 

oner's life;  the  grooves  of  the  old  guillotine,    by  means  of 

which,  after  excruciating  torture,  he  was  put  to  death;  and 

then  the  narrow  opening  through 

which  the  body  was  removed  at 

night  and  rowed  out  to  a  distant 

spot,  where  it  was  death  to  cast 

a  net.      Here,  unillumined  even 

by    a   torch,    it    sank,   freighted 

with  heavy  stones,  into  the  sea, 

whose  gloomy  depths  will  guard 

all   secrets    hidden  in  its  breast 

until    its    waters    shall    give    up 

their  dead. 

Connected  with  the  Ducal 
residence  is  the  world-renowned 
St.  Mark's  Cathedral. 


BRIDGE  OF  SIGHS. 


The  old 

Venetians  built  not  only  palaces  for  men ;  they  made  their 
shrines  to  God  palatial.  I  looked  on  this  one  with  bewilder- 
ment. There  is  no  structure  like  it  in  the  world.  Its  bulbous 


VENICE 


319 


domes  and  minaret-like  belfries  remind  one  of  the  Orient.  It 
seems  more  like  a  Mohammedan  than  a  Christian  temple. 
If  the  phrase  be  permitted,  it  is  a  kind  of  Christian  mosque. 
The  truth  is,  the  Venetians  brought  back  from  their  victories 
in  the  East  ideas  of  Oriental  architecture  which  had  pleased 


ST.  MARK'S  CATHEDRAL. 


them,  and  were  thus  able  to  produce  a  wonderful  blending  of 
Moorish,  Arabic,  and  Gothic  art. 

What  a  facade  is  this!  Here,  massed  in  serried  ranks,  are 
scores  of  variously  colored  marble  columns,  each  one  a  mono- 
lith, and  all  possessing  an  eventful  history.  Some  are  from 
Ephesus,  others  from  Smyrna,  while  others  still  are  from  Con- 
stantinople, and  more  than  one  even  from  Jerusalem.  On 
one,  the  hand  of  Cleopatra  may  have  rested;  another  may 
have  cast  its  shadow  on  St.  Paul;  a  third  may  have  been 
looked  upon  by  Jesus.  St.  Mark's  is  the  treasure-house  of 


320 


VENICE 


THE    BRONZE   HORSES 


Venice,  —  a  place 
of  pride  as  well  as 
of  prayer.  Here 
was  heaped  up  the 
booty  which  she 
gained  from  her 
repeated  con- 
quests. The 
Doge's  Palace 
was  the  brain  of 
Venice;  the  Grand 
Piazza  was  its 
heart;  but  this 
Cathedral  was  its 
soul. 
The  work  of  beautifying  this  old  church  was  carried  on 

enthusiastically    for    five    hundred    years.      Each    generation 

tried  to  outdo  all  that  had 

preceded     it.       Again     and 

again  Venetian  fleets  swept 

proudly     up     the    Adriatic, 

laden    with    spoils    destined 

for    this    glorious    shrine. 

Viva  San  Marco!    was    the 

watchword     alike     of     her 

armies  and  her  navies;   and 

when  the  captains  of  Vene- 
tian  fleets    came    homeward 

from    the    Orient,    the    first 

inquiry    put     to    them    was 

this:   "What    new    and 

splendid   offering  bring  you 

for  San  Marco?"     The  dust 

of  ages,  therefore,  may  have 


THE    PORTAL  OF   ST.    MARK  S. 


VENICE 


321 


gathered  on  this  building,  but  it  is,  at  least,  the  dust  of 
gold.  Its  domes  and  spires  glisten  with  the  yellow  lustre. 
It  even  gilds  the  four  bronze  horses  which  surmount  its 
portal.  These  are  among  the  most  interesting  statues  in 
the  world.  We  know  not  who  the  sculptor  was  that  gave 
them  their  apparent  life;  but  it  is  certain  that  they  were 


CORNER   OF  THE   CATHEDRAL. 


carried  to  Rome  and  there  attached  to  Nero's  golden 
chariot.  In  the  fourth  century  after  Christ  the  emperor 
Constantine,  when  he  transferred  the  seat  of  empire  from 
the  Tiber  to  the  Bosphorus,  took  them  to  Constantinople, 
where  for  nine  hundred  years  they  proudly  stood  beside  the 
Golden  Horn.  Then,  when  that  capital  was  plundered  by 
the  Venetians,  they  were  brought  hither,  and  for  five  hundred 
years  they  adorned  the  entrance  to  St.  Mark's.  Even  here 
their  travels  had  not  ended;  for,  a  century  ago,  Napoleon, 


322 


VENICE 


when  conqueror  of  Italy,  caused  them  to  be  conveyed  to 
Paris,  where,  in  the  shadow  of  the  Tuileries,  they  watched 
the  triumph  of  the  modern  Caesar.  But  after  Waterloo, 

Venice  once  more  claimed  them 
for  her  own. 

It  is  an  impressive  moment 
when  one  passes  beneath  these 
gilded  steeds  and  enters  the 
interior  of  the  cathedral.  A 
twilight  gloom  pervades  it,  well 
suited  to  its  age  and  the  mys- 
terious origin  of  all  it  contains. 
The  walls  and  roof  are  so  pro- 
fusely covered  with  mosaics  and 
precious  marbles  that  it  is  easy 
to  understand  why  St.  Mark's 
has  been  called  the  "  Church  of 
Gold,"  and  likened  to  a  cav- 
ern hung  with  stalactites 
of  precious  stones.  Some 
of  these  ornaments  are  of 
pagan  origin ;  others  have 
come  from  Christian  shrines. 
All,  however,  have  had  to 
pay  their  contribution  to  St.  Mark's. 
Thus  Santa  Sophia  at  Constantinople, 
though  still  a  Christian  church  and 
dedicated  to  the  Saviour,  was  plun- 
dered to  embellish  the  Venetian  shrine 
named  after  His  apostle.  Hence,  it 
is  the  literal  truth  that,  overflowing 
with  the  spoils  of  other  cities  and  sanctuaries,  St.  Mark's  is  a 
magnificent  repository  of  booty  —  a  veritable  den  of  thieves. 
In  the  most  prominent  position  in  the  church  is  the  receptacle 


A    VENETIAN   LANE. 


VENICE 


325 


INTERIOR  OF   ST.    MARK  S   CATHEDRAL. 


guarded  by  the 
statues  of  the 
twelve  apostles, 
where  is  kept,  as 
the  most  precious 
of  its  treasures,  the 
body  of  St.  Mark. 
On  one  side  is  the 
pulpit  from  which 
the  old  Doge,  Dan- 
dolo,  when  ninety- 
three  years  of  age, 
urged  his  people 
to  undertake  the 
fourth  crusade. 

"  Men  of  Venice!  "  he  exclaimed,  "  I  am  old  and  weak, 
and  I  need  rest,  but  I  will  go  with  you  to  rescue  from  the  in- 
fidel the  Holy  Sepulchre,  and  I  will  be  victorious  or  lose  my 
life."  Hearing  these  words,  the  assembled  people  made 

these  walls  re- 
sound with  the 
cry:  "So  be  it! 
Lead  us  on !  For 
God's  sake  go 
with  us!  "  Then 
the  old  Doge 
descended  from 
the  pulpit,  and 
standing  on  the 
steps  between  the 
jasper  columns, 
received  the 
badge  of  the 
Crusaders,  the 


THE   STATUES   OF  THE   APOSTLES. 


326 


VENICE 


A  TYPE   OF   GONDOLIER. 


Cross  of  Christ,  a  miniature  reproduc- 
tion of  the  colossal  crucifix,  which  glit- 
tered then,  as  it  still  gleams  to-day, 
above  the  place  on  which  he  stood. 

On  leaving  this  marvelous  struc- 
ture, one  steps  directly  into  the  adjoin- 
ing St.  Mark's  Square.  If  it  be  the 
hour  of  siesta,  it  will  appear  deserted. 
Yet  this  has  been  for  centuries  the 
Forum  of  Venetian  life;  the  favorite 
place  for  her  festivities;  the  beautiful, 
historic  stage  on  which  have  been  en- 
acted most  of  the  scenes  connected  with  her  glorious  past. 
Around  it  are  fine  marble  structures,  which  even  now  are  used 
for  offices  of  State.  Within  these  long  arcades  are  the  most 
attractive  shops  in  Venice,  and,  were  there  only  a  garden  in 
the  centre,  the  place  would  remind  one  of  the  Palais  Royal  at 
Paris,  which  was,  in  fact,  built  in  imitation  of  this  square. 
To-day  the  popularity  of  the 
Parisian  square  is  waning, 
since  many  of  its  gorgeous 
shops  have  migrated  to  the 
Rue  de  la  Paix.  But  owing 
to  its  situation,  the  attract- 
iveness of  the  Venetian 
court  can  hardly  be  dimin- 
ished. While  Venice  lasts, 
its  glory  must  remain  un- 
dimmed  by  Time. 

On  summer  evenings, 
when  the  city  wakes  to  life 
and  music,  the  famous 
square  bursts  into  the  gaiety 
of  a  ball-room,  and  is  the 


A   FISHERMAN. 


VENICE 


327 


favorite  rendezvous  of  all  lovers  and  pleasure-seekers,  whether 
natives  or  foreigners.  Here,  several  times  a  week,  fine 
military  music  floats  upon  the  air,  and  hundreds  of  men  and 
women  stroll  along  these  marble  blocks,  which  in  the  moon- 


THE    PIAZZA  DI    SAN   MARCO. 


light  seem  as  white  as  snow.  Others,  meantime,  are  seated 
beneath  the  neighboring  arches,  sipping  coffee  or  sherbet, 
laughing  and  talking  in  the  soft  Venetian  dialect,  and,  like 
the  Japanese,  seeming  to  appreciate  the  mere  joy  of  living,  an 
art  which  many  of  us,  alas,  have  lost. 

One  pretty  feature   of   this  historic   area  is   its  pigeons. 
Their   homes    are    in    the    marble    arches    of    the    adjoining 


328 


VENICE 


buildings;  and  shortly  after  midday,  every  afternoon,  they 
suddenly  appear  in  great  numbers;  now  rising  in  a  pretty 
cloud  of  fluttering  wings;  now  grouped  together  like  an  undu- 
lating wave  of  eider-down.  Foreigners,  in  particular,  love  to 

feed  them ;  and 
in  return  for  the 
kindness  they 
receive,  the 
pigeons  at  times 
alight  upon  the 
shoulders  of  a 
stranger  or  cou- 
rageously pick 
up  crumbs  from 
outstretched 
hands.  It  is 
not  strange  that 
Venice  should 
guard  these  birds  so  tenderly.  Six  centuries  ago,  when  the 
Venetians  were  blockading  the  island  of  Candia,  the  Doge's 
officers  observed  that  pigeons  frequently  flew  above  their 
heads.  Suspecting  something,  they  contrived  to  shoot  a  few, 
and  each  was  found  to  have  beneath  its  wing  a  message  to 
the  enemy.  Acting  on  information  thus  acquired,  the  Vene- 
tian admiral  made  his  attack  at  once  and  captured  the  island 
in  twelve  hours.  The  carrier-pigeons  which  they  found  there 
were  therefore  taken  home  to  Venice  and  treated  with  the 
utmost  kindness,  and  their  descendants  have  ever  since  been 
favorites  of  the  people. 

On  walking  from  the  Piazza,  toward  the  Grand  Canal,  one 
always  finds  at  the  extremity  of  the  Piazzetta  a  line  of  waiting 
gondolas.  At  once  a  shower  of  soft  Italian  syllables  falls 
musically  on  the  air:  "  Una  gondola,  Signore!  Commanda 
una  gondola;  Una  barca,  Signore;  Una  bellissima  barca; 


FEEDING   THE   PIGEONS. 


VENICE 


329 


Vuol'  andare?  Eccomi  pronto!  "  The  speakers  are  Venetian 
coachmen,  and  the  contrast  is  a  startling  one  between  the 
liquid  vowels  of  their  speech  and  the  rasping  cries  of  our 
American  drivers:  "Want  a  cow-pay,  lady?"  "Want  a 
kerridge?"  "Want  a  hack — hack — hack?"  As  for  the  gon- 
doliers themselves,  how  picturesque  they  look  with  their  white 
suits  and  colored  scarfs!  Who  can  resist  the  impulse  to  enter 
one  of  these  pretty  barges  and  give  oneself  to  the  enjoyment 
of  the  hour? 

Few  things  are  more  delightful  than  floating  here  in  a 
gondola  after  the  heat  of  a  summer  day.  We  say  summer, 
for  Venice  should,  if  possible,  be  always  visited  in  warm 
weather — the  healthiest  season  here.  Then  only  can  one 
thoroughly  enjoy  its  outdoor  life.  However  sultry  it  may  be 
on  land,  in  Venice  it  is  reasonably  cool,  and  the  broad  bosom  of 
the  Adriatic,  as  it  swells 
and  falls,  breathes 
through  the  streets  of 
Venice  the  delicious 
freshness  of  the  sea. 
At  such  a  time,  to  idly 
float  upon  this  beauti- 
ful expanse,  dreaming 
of  art  and  history  (per- 
chance of  love),  through 
the  sweet,  tranquil 
hours  which  bear  upon 
their  noiseless  wings 
the  hint  of  a  repose  still 
held  in  the  unfolded 
hands  of  Night, —  that 
is  happiness, —  that  is 
rest!  At  such  a  time 
one  loves  to  call  to 


WAITING  GONDOLAS. 


330 


VENICE 


mind   the  scenes  which   must   have  often  taken  place    upon 
the  surface  of  this  siren  sea,  when  Venice  had  no  less  than 

thirty    thousand    gondolas, 

of  which  at  least  one-third 
were  richly  decorated,  and 
vied  with  one  another  in 
their  gilded  draperies  and 
carvings.  To  such  an  ex- 
tent, indeed,  did  reckless 
competition  in  them  go, 
that  the  Doge  finally  issued 
a  decree  that  they  should 
thenceforth  have  black 
awnings  only.  Since  then 
Venetian  gondolas  have 
been  prosaic  in  appearance, 
though  their  dark  awnings 
have  increased  the  oppor- 
tunities for  crime  or  intrigue,  and  they  have  often  been  the 
rendezvous  of  hate  or  love, —  ideal  vehicles  for  murder  or 
elopement. 

"  In  Venice  Tasso's  echoes  are  no  more, 
And  silent  rows  the  songless  gondolier: 
Her  palaces  are  crumbling  to  the  shore, 
And  music  meets  not  always  now  the  ear: 
Those  days  are  gone  —  but  Beauty  still  is  here. 
States  fall,  arts  fade, —  but  Nature  doth  not  die, 
Nor  yet  forget  how  Venice  once  was  dear, 
The  pleasant  place  of  all  festivity, 
The  revel  of  the  earth,  the  masque  of  Italy!" 

To  the  lover  of  the  beautiful  in  Nature  the  most  enchant- 
ing characteristic  of  this  City  of  the  Sea  is  its  sunset  glow. 
Italian  sunsets  are  all  beautiful;  but  those  of  Venice  are  the 
loveliest  of  all.  Their  softness,  brilliancy  and  splendor  can- 
not be  described.  The  last  which  I  beheld  here,  on  a  night 


IN   A   GONDOLA. 


VENICE  331 

in  June,  surpassed  all  others  I  had  ever  seen.  The  shadows 
were  falling  to  the  eastward ;  the  hush  of  night  was  stealing 
on  the  world.  The  cares  of  life  seemed  disappearing  down 
the  radiant  west  together  with  the  God  of  Day.  Between  us 
and  the  setting  sun  there  seemed  to  fall  a  shower  of  powdered 


LIKE   A   BEAUTIFUL   MIRAGE. 


gold.     The  entire  city  was  pervaded  by  a  golden  light,  which 
yet  was  perfectly  transparent,  like  the  purest  ether. 

As  we  drew  nearer  to  the  Grand  Canal  the  scene  grew  even 
more  enchanting.  In  the  refulgent  light  the  city  lay  before 
us  like  a  beautiful  mirage,  enthroned  upon  a  golden  bank 
between  two  seas, —  the  ocean  and  the  sky.  Her  streets 
seemed  filled  with  liquid  sunshine.  The  steps  of  her  patrician 
palaces  appeared  entangled  in  the  meshes  of  a  golden  net. 
The  neighboring  islands  looked  like  jeweled  wreckage  floating 
from  a  barge  of  gold.  The  whole  effect  was  that  of  a  poem 
without  words,  illustrated  by  Titian,  and  having  for  a  soft 


332 


VENICE 


accompaniment  the  ripple  of  the  radiant  waves.  I  have  seen 
many  impressive  sights  in  many  climes;  but  for  triumphant 
beauty,  crystallized  in  stone  and  glorified  by  the  setting  sun, 
I  can  recall  no  scene  more  matchless  in  its  loveliness  than 
that  which  I  enjoyed,  when,  on  this  richly-tinted  sea,  I 
watched  the  Bride  and  Sovereign  of  the  Adriatic  pass  to  the 
curtained  chamber  of  the  night  enveloped  in  a  veil  of  gold. 


IN  VENICE   AT   SUNSET, 


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